Sunnyside-Up in New York
by Firetoflame
Summary: The one where Phil owns a diner. Takes in strays. And Clint just wants his own room. High School AU: Also featuring Tony "I'm too smart for my own good" Stark. Steve "all american, I'm in love with Bucky Barnes" Rogers. Natasha "scary Russian transfer student" Romanoff. Thor "I eat for a living" Odinson. And Bruce "science brother wonder team" Banner.
1. Chapter 1

Sun spills through the open screen door, highlighting the trodden path of carpet that Clint navigates, stepping over book bags, an organic chemistry textbook that probably has more of Tony's DNA on it than he cares to know, and a set of shoulder pads that Steve has just pulled out of the wash. The strong scent of fabric softener tickles his nose until it's replaced by the sweet swell of sugar that makes his mouth water.

The main floor of the house smells like cinnamon rolls; it also smells like pastrami and Swiss cheese but that's bleeding through from the diner built onto the front of the extensive property owned by Phil Coulson—Clint's foster . . . well, foster person.

He's been the closest thing to a father figure as Clint figures he's ever gunna get, or even deserve, but after seventeen years, ten of them spent in less than stellar foster homes, he's come to understand that the only one really looking out for Clint is himself.

He's in a pretty good place now, though. He'd even go as far as to say that he and Phil are close. Friends even. He has foster brothers, too. And not the kind that slit his mattress while he sleeps and take off with his mother's antique wrist watch. The good kind. The kind that make him wish he and Barney still talked to each other (That he even knew where the hell Barney was really).

Clint wades into the kitchen, sweats tucked around his hips, a purple tee clinging to his frame, mussing his hair and smirking at the sight of Phil. He's got his Kiss the Cook apron on again, the one Tony insisted on buying him, as he pulls the tray of rolls from the oven.

Steve's all over the food, hovering like a starving tiger, all lean muscle and stealth. He's a like a tiger. If tigers were blond, blue-eyed orphans from Brooklyn who grew up on the wrong side of the tracks and still ended up being the all American hero with the manners of a man from the forties.

He reaches for the tray before Phil even has the chance to warn him it's still hot (which is really just common sense at this point, but try arguing with a six-foot-four quarter back with a higher metabolism than superman and see how it goes). Steve jams a roll into his mouth, lips pursed around the heat, chugging back a glass of milk before reaching for another. He pats Phil's shoulder in gratitude.

Clint chuckles as he crosses the kitchen because Phil can't cook to save his life. He owns and runs a diner, but can't tell the salt from the sugar without his glasses. Everything he cooks comes out of a box. Clint salutes Steve on his way to the table, grabbing a plate as he passes, thanking Philsbury for breakfast.

Usually they just grab something to go from the diner. Sam always has extras prepped, but today was the first day of junior year and Phil wanted them all together (probably to take some corny family photo). Clint didn't really mind though. It had been a long time since he had been considered part of a family.

"So . . ." Phil says, laying a plate of cinnamon rolls down and tucking into the table. He's got one of his signature black suits on, rolled up at the sleeves.

Clint swears he's some kind of government agent and that the diner is just a cover-job, but Phil insists you never need a reason to look good. "I don't know," Clint answers around a bite of food, ignoring his conspiracy theories. "I really appreciate the new mattress, Phil, I do. It's great. But I'll trade it in for my own room whenever you get around to getting those renovations started. Not that I'm rushing you. Just saying, you know, with Tony out of the house during the day there's less of a chance of walls imploding and stuff."

Phil looks thoughtful but Clint can tell he's trying not to smile.

"Heard my name," comes the clipped bark as everyone's favourite inventor (the sarcasm here is dripping Philsbury icing it's so coated) enters the room, looking like he's just crawled out of one of the pizza boxes Clint can usually smell from his side of the room.

"Another late night?" Phil asks Tony, who's still currently slouching around in his pajamas. It looks like he might have taken a comb to one half of his head before abandoning it for his toothbrush which presently hangs out of his mouth as he fiddles with a tiny black box.

Clint eyes it warily.

"Do you know how many national robotic championships SHIELD enters?" Tony says. "One. And do you know how many times we've won? None. But this baby here," he shakes the box, "this is the ticket."

"You know those competitions cost more than the student council budget right? With parts and materials added and transport that's a pretty fine bill," Phil says, sipping his coffee. Eyes scanning the funnies section of the paper. "You're lucky SHIELD has it in the budget at all."

Tony rolls his eyes. "I'd fund it myself if they'd just enter."

Clint smirks. "What're you gunna do? Write them a check four years in the making?"

"That's beside the point. The money's there, festering in a pool of its own interest. You'd think SHIELD would take interest in that. In me. I'm an investment."

"What you are is going to be late," Phil remarks, looking at his watch. "Better get ready. And eat something for goodness sake; you look like I haven't let you see daylight all summer."

"Sure you're not a vampire, Tony?" Steve jokes as he nudges his shoulder on his way to the fridge for another glass of milk. Clint's pretty sure his bones have crystalized to diamonds by now.

Tony shoves a battery into the device in his hand, which looks sort of like a remote now that it's turned, and it sparks, setting Clint's napkin on fire. He douses it with a splash of water from his glass. "Seriously," he whispers to Phil. "I'll sleep on the veranda. I think I saw something about this in health and safety."

"That doesn't apply here."

"Sure it does, if I'm coming to you as an employee. And since I technically work where I live, I think the argument stands."

"Sure you don't want to be a lawyer, Clint?" Phil says with that familiar twinkle. The one where he knows too much and it's bad for everyone else.

"Nah, stuffy suits and dinner parties. That's not my scene."

"Well, keep it in mind," Phil says. "And Tony, how many times do I have to tell you not to finish brushing your teeth in the kitchen sink? There are three bathrooms in this place."

"Right-o, Phil," Tony says, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. He rips into a cinnamon roll then, stowing his toothbrush behind his ear. "Kind of tastes like fluoride."

"That's about normal," Clint mutters.

Phil eyes him over his glasses. "Remember who feeds you, Barton."

Clint looks across the table to Steve and Tony and in unison they all reply, "Sam." Phil pretends to look offended and excuses himself to retrieve his agenda from his office. The three of them break into a chorus of sniggers that only die down when a hulking shadow eclipses the table.

"Good day friends. The day begins anew, the sun shines—

"I hear one doth from you today, Thor, and I'll have the tech department tank your audition," Tony clips, threatening the black mass standing in the screen doorway. "I've had enough Shakespeare in the Park for one lifetime."

The blonde mass of person (who Clint thinks is on steroids, but is really just related to some freakishly gigantic Scandinavian people or something) crosses through the kitchen.

"If you insist." Thor slings his bag over a chair and rummages through a nearby cupboard, ripping into a pack of Poptarts. He takes a bite of one and stuffs the other in the toaster, chucking the box over his shoulder at the recycle bin. "Phil you're out of Poptarts!"

Phil walks back into the kitchen, a stack of files under his arm, fixing his tie. "Which only seems to happen when you stop by. I wonder why that is?"

"He's a growing boy, Phil. He needs his nourishment, especially if he's going to make the audition this morning." Tony points across the kitchen. "Romeo, toss me the syrup."

Thor makes a swipe for it but Phil picks it up and hands it to Tony, muttering something about having too much sugar.

"You are going out for Romeo, right? Not Juliette," Tony continues, gesturing with his fork.

Thor tosses the half-eaten Poptart at him.

Tony ducks and recovers. "I only ask because the hair's getting a little long there. Jane'll be able to braid it soon."

"At least I have a girlfriend, Stark."

"I have friends that are girls," Tony insists.

"Ones that can actually endure being around you for more than five minutes?"

Tony scowls, but Steve claps his shoulder and says, "Tony's holding out for Pepper, anyway."

Tony bolsters at that. "And this is why you're my favourite, Cap."

"Alright before this escalates, or Thor eats us out of a week's worth of groceries again, who wants a ride to school? Offer's only on the table for thirty seconds," Phil says. "I have places to be."

"How many times do we have to tell you that showing up at school with the ex-guidance counsellor is not cool, Phil?" Tony quips. "How many?"

"I beg to differ. Lola is the epitome of cool."

"Car, yes. You no. If you're so concerned about our cool factor how about we drive Lola and you take the van to get supplies today?"

Phil smirks. "Nice try, kid."

"I'll ride with you, Phil," Steve says, tucking his plate away in the dishwasher.

"Well, look at that," Phil says.

Tony scoffs. "He just wants you to let him borrow Lola so he can ask Peggy out."

Steve rolls his eyes. "I don't want to date Peggy; we're just friends."

"With benefits?" Tony asks so casually he might have been asking Steve to pass the milk.

The tips of Steve's ears glow, but other than that he makes no argument one way or the other and Clint suspects, not for the first time either, that even if Peggy was that kind of girl, which she isn't (stiletto up the ass maybe but not a friends-with-benefits gal), that Steve doesn't exactly swing that way. He doesn't know exactly what gives him that impression, not that it matters anyway. Steve's business is his business and Clint's just lucky that at least one of his foster brothers won't be trying to set his gym shorts on fire (It was totally not an accident, regardless of what Tony says. They lock up shit like nitroglycerin for a reason.)

"She's too old for you," Phil says, cutting into Clint's thoughts and when he looks up, Steve's cheeks have turned a pale pink.

"I don't want to date her!" he insists. "Is it too much to assume that a male and female co-worker could be friends without having some romantic involvement attached?"

"Yes," Tony deadpans. Clint shrugs.

Steve huffs and Phil watches him carefully. It doesn't happen often, but Steve's been known to pack a punch (it's exclusively reserved for the boxing-bag in the makeshift gym downstairs), but for some reason Clint thinks Phil assumes Steve's first non-bag target is going to be Tony's nose.

Thor looks like he thinks this too, but his grin is strangely eager as he slurps his juice. It's almost as weird as that time he chucked his mug across the floor of the diner, demanding another root beer (apparently it's a custom). Clint isn't so sure about that, but he is sure that the amount of product used to keep his hair back in a ponytail is starting to get to Thor's head.

Tony waves off the whole thing because he's that sure of himself. "By the way, Cap, you gunna plow into some newbies after school? This something I want to come watch? You know, flattened football players are my favourite kind."

Steve grins then. "Haven't flattened any since we pulled you off the field last year."

Tony scowls. "That was for research and you know it."

Clint stretches his hands over his head, tossing his napkin at the trash across the kitchen. It's disappears into the bag without a second glance. "Keep telling yourself that, genius. But seeing as you're not dressed yet, that means I get to drive."


	2. Chapter 2

The ride into SHIELD Secondary School takes less than ten minutes. They could probably walk but with all Tony's robotics junk packed into the back seat it would take multiple trips. Plus Steve's got his gear today and for the next week while he conducts tryouts (it's why he ended up in the van and not in the convertible with Phil); Clint's bow case is somewhere back there, too. He just hopes Thor doesn't sit on his good arrows again.

They park in the same spot they always do, right next to the exit. It makes for a quick escape when the hordes let out at the end of the day. At least that's the way Clint looks at it. Tony just grumbles about having to walk with a roll of conduction wire wrapped around his arm.

They cut through the courtyard, with their bags and junk and in Steve's case, a box of protein bars to stuff in his locker. The area's still mostly empty. Everyone's probably down the street at Starbuck's hopping up on coffee and double chocolate brownies. They have a shawarma joint next door that Tony swears by, but Clint thinks that's just secretly where he picks up girls.

"Well that's new," Tony says suddenly, his voice dragging.

He drops his glasses down his face, eyes comically wide as Clint looks around at what he's seen.

And boy does he see it. Across the courtyard, cutting between the science wing and the language department.

It happens to be a girl. Well not just a girl. A wow, I have to do a double take because . . . wow .

"Junior," Tony says immediately.

Thor shakes his head. "Definitely a senior."

Steve shrugs. "New substitute maybe?"

Clint looks at him. "On the first day?"

"Nah," Thor cuts in. "She's wearing jeans."

"So?" Steve says.

"Jeans don't make a good impression on your first day of teaching. Plus she's not old enough."

"Looks old enough to me," Tony mutters, bottom lip pulled between his teeth as his eyes do far too much wandering.

Clint gives him a sharp elbow to the gut. "And we all know you're only looking one of two places."

Tony winces, but on the next breath chokes out, "Is there anywhere else to look?"

"Sorry to leave you with him," Steve says, looking up from his phone and frowning like Tony's a child they share responsibility for (he really is), "but I have to bail. Coach wants to run through the practice plays before class."

"Go get 'em tiger," Tony says. "I'll deal with Clint and Thor."

Both Steve and Clint roll their eyes before Steve takes off for the track at a run. His run is like Clint's full on sprint. The guy could be a track star if he wasn't captain of the football team. Heck he could just be every team. Solo. Numero uno. And he'd still place on the podium.

"So," Tony says as Steve retreats. "Think we'll be seeing much of this new girl?"

Clint shrugs. "I'm sure you will be if you have your way."

Tony smirks and as he does the girl turns her head, eyes narrowed in their direction. It's so sharp and fast that Clint's certain she's heard them, but from all the way over there? Nah, it's not possible. The way his hair prickles on the back of his neck says something else.

Tony makes a face and staggers to a stop, fitting his shades back over his nose. "Er, maybe not. Evil eye is a bad sign."

Clint watches the girl look away, eyes downcast again.

"Guess you won't be able to charm your way around this one," Thor says, unwrapping a sandwich from his bag and taking a bite that decimates half of it. If anyone can rival Steve in the food department it's Thor. The guy's built like a brick house.

"It's okay," Tony says. "Saving it up for Pepper anyway."

Clint clicks his tongue in disbelief. "You know she's in her second year of university, right? Almost three years older than you."

"I'm smarter than all those dorks she's studying with. Age is nothing but a number, buddy." Spying Bruce (the other half of the science brothers wonder team) just inside the main doors, Tony taps Clint on the chest and makes his way through the crowd.

Thor waves as well, heading off towards the drama department.

Clint makes his way to biology alone and takes a seat in the back like he usually does. She's in his first class. The new girl.

Her name's Natasha. And that's all he finds out since she declines the offer to talk about herself in front of the class. Clint's intrigued. He also now has a thing for red hair. Really red, like cherries on fire red.

It makes his mouth dry when he thinks about it. He doesn't know why.

To distract himself he reads the textbook, reviewing cellular organelles. Natasha slips out as soon as the bell wrings, before Clint's even brought himself to stand.

She's in his next class too. Spanish. She's good. Real good. At first he thinks she's not paying attention, staring out the window and twirling her hair in that way girls do when they want you to stare, only he doesn't think she does; and the next thing she's conversing fluently with the teacher and Clint thinks maybe he took a wrong turn this morning and ended up in Mexico or something.

She doesn't turn up in his history class and it actually disappoints him. Clint's never been stellar at school. He's smart enough, sure, and Phil expects that he attends. If not Phil gets Fury on his ass and he doesn't want to piss off the eye patch this early in the term. No doubt he'll be scrubbing graffiti off the bleachers or something even more unpleasant. High school was just one giant cesspool of gross when Clint really thought about it.

Still, despite the fact he wants to request a hall pass just to wander the halls in search of her class, which is not a good thing (or a sane thing), Clint had come to find her presence distracting in the best possible way and was eager to learn everything he could about her. SHIELD was a small school, pulling in kids from several resident towns just outside New York, and it wasn't often they had new kids join their grade. Bruce had been the last one and only because of some "anger issues" that were left unresolved at the private school he attended. Apparently Bruce doesn't play well with others (except for Tony), though as far as Clint can tell the guy just doesn't have a tolerance for stupid questions.

He's been nice enough any of the times Clint's seen him outside the science labs (which really just boils down to lunch and band practice-Bruce runs their extra audio since apparently Tony can't croon unless he hears his voice reverberated back at him a thousand times.)

"Mr. Barton, have I lost you already?"

"No, Ms. Hill," he replies, blue eyes caught on the board above her head. Hill is a no-nonsense, ass kicking ninja of a history teacher (seriously he's seen her teach judo in town) and Clint knows she goes in for the kill when you make eye contact.

"Then what did I just say?"

"What did I just say."

She glares and (dammit, he looks) it's a look of ice that fuses his muscles to his bones. He might be more worried if Maria Hill weren't a close friend of Phil's. She's developed a soft spot for his foster kids (except for Tony. No one can have a soft spot for that much sass) over the years and Clint plays on this as he offers her a tentative smile.

She resumes her pacing across the room, her lips pursed in reply. "Eyes up front, Barton."

"Yes, mam."

He learns about the industrial revolution. Again. It's always the same thing in history. Which makes sense, really. He tries to pay attention but the history hall is on the back side of the stage and he can hear the murmurs of auditions going on in the drama department. He hopes things go well for Thor. The guy's literally been obsessing over the part all summer, and let's be real, who doesn't want tall, blonde and handsome as their lead. His face alone will sell out the tickets, never mind his acting chops, which Clint has to admit, aren't half bad.

By the time class lets out Clint has a paper due in three weeks, four chapters on the industrial revolution to review, and a grumbling stomach. He heads towards the cafeteria. Bruce is the first one he runs into. The guy's pale. The same kind of cooped-up-all-summer-indoors pale as Tony, and muttering to himself.

"You okay, man?" Clint asks. When Bruce looks up he looks tired. Though he always sort of looks that way. Must be the mad genius in him. Between him and Tony they'll either find the cure for cancer or invent a robot hell bent on killing them all.

He doesn't say much, just mumbles and tips his head towards the office where Tony is engaged in a heated, hand flapping conversation with the principle.

"Damn," Clint sighs.

"Yeah."

They wait in silence as the world moves around them. It's really just a bunch of freshmen who stand outside the cafeteria looking for the cafeteria. Clint's seriously starting to wonder about the literacy rate in this country because there are literally signs everywhere and these kids can't be that stupid. Finally one girl with straight black hair and a grape purple shirt forces her way to the front of the pack and in the right door. After that it's like a herding effect and the mass moves.

When Tony finally leaves the office he looks more troubled than anything.

"What did he say?" Bruce asks as soon as he steps out the door and into the hall.

"The hell'd you do now?" Clint asks.

"I'm not in trouble, Barton." Tony drums his fingers against his lips.

"What did he say?" Bruce stresses again.

"He says we need to come up with an idea that fits this years theme or the project is a no go. And the application is due in just under two months. Needs a thesis this year and everything."

Clint looks between the two. They converse so quickly he misses half of it.

"What's the theme?"

"A technological design."

"Of?"

"An application that will improve the functional mobility of something in society."

"That's kinda broad."

"It's vague."

"And?"

"Thompson says he's not gunna bother with it unless we come up with something worthwhile. Creative. Forward thinking. You know the drill."

Bruce cracks a smile and it's so rare Clint thinks about flipping out his phone and snapping a picture. He doesn't though because knowing Bruce, he'll turn into some crazy rage monster when the flash goes off. (Clint's still not sure about these unresolved "anger issues".)

"So your thermo-tech sports equipment is off the table then," Bruce says.

Tony waves his hand airily. "They wouldn't say that if they'd smelled Steve after a football game."

"Guess your fire starting remote doesn't count either," Clint adds, standing on his tip toes for a better view inside the cafeteria.

Tony takes a swat at him, missing of course. "Quiet, Barton. I'm trying to think."

"Well you do that, let's grab a seat, I'm starving."

They join the queue forcing their way inside the cafeteria. Steve flags them down easily (it helps that he's the most popular guy in school and has his pick of the tables. Also that he towers above ninety-five percent of the population) looking helpless surrounded by preening senior girls. They clear off as soon as they spy Tony.

"You guys want pizza?" Steve asks, plopping back into his seat and gesturing towards the stacked trays.

"What'd you do, bribe the lunch lady?" Clint asks, grabbing a slice and scooping the cheese into his mouth. It's still warm and melts down his throat.

"Coach doesn't think I'm getting enough carbs. Wants me to bulk up some more."

"So he bought out the pizza trays?"

"Apparently."

"My kind of guy," Clint says, scooping another piece as Thor sits down.

"So?" Tony asks, fiddling with his phone. He looks over the lens at Thor. "How'd it go?"

"Made call-backs," he says, already digging into his second piece.

"For when?"

"Next Monday."

"Figured that," Tony says. "Nice work."

"What about you? Got that robotics competition in the bag yet?"

Tony has his head pressed close to Bruce's, both of them arranging schematics on the screen of Tony's phone. "Working on it," he mumbles.

"What about you, Clint? Gunna run archery again this year? You know they do that kind of stuff at the Olympics, right?" Steve is very serious for a moment. "Coach was talking, says you should go out. You'd make the team for sure. Never seen anyone who can shoot like you."

Clint shrugs, having spotted the familiar (unfamiliar) shock of red hair across the room. "Not really my thing," he mutters and as he does the red disappears from sight. He doesn't blame her. He wouldn't want to spend his first day at a new school alone in the cafeteria at lunch either.

He can't deny that the patter of his heart doesn't slow when she's gone though. And he's not exactly sure what that means. All he knows is Natasha is a mystery that needs to be solved if he's going to keep his thoughts from straying. At the very least he needs to talk to her.

He's given his chance when lunch lets out (after Thor and Steve have competed for pizza eating champion without puking). Clint finds her standing outside the chemistry class, textbook tucked under her arm, red hair falling down her back in loose rings.

The hall is still relatively empty. The plus of sticking chemistry beside the administration department.

All the secretaries are on break.

Clint leans up against the locker nearest to where she's standing. In his experience there's no good way to go about initiating conversation with a stranger. Especially one that makes his mouth go a little dry. So he just goes for it.

"Hi," he says, watching the way her green eyes track him. They're astute and maybe just a tiny bit curious, her head tipped slightly to suggest it. Clint thinks green is his second new favorite color. Second only to red of course. "So," he continues, fully aware of how awkward this is , "not much of a talker or not much to say, Natasha Romanoff?"

"Romanov," she says and for a second he's startled, first by the slight accent he detects and then by the fact she's answered. He honestly wasn't expecting a response because in all seriousness he's a bit lax in the conversation department and Natasha doesn't seem like the kind of girl one can just go up and talk to. He knows she's way out of his league. Even Tony's. Maybe more like Steve's.

"Huh?" he responds when she wrinkles her brow at him.

Oh yeah, he had asked her a question.

He opens his mouth but she turns away, eyes skimming the clock on the wall. "It's Russian," she informs him without looking at him. "Don't kill it with your American accent."

"You don't have much of an accent," he says.

She shrugs. "It falls in and out. I learned English in grade school."

They don't speak again as class lets in and Clint spends the first twenty minutes of the lesson stealing glances at Natasha and wondering what brought her over from Russia.

When the teacher instructs them to find a lab partner he glances her way, pleasantly surprised to find her gaze lingering on an empty lab bench. He wanders over to it, shrugging his shoulders in question. She nods silently and joins him on the other side if the table.

A list of ingredients and instructions are laid out on cards.

Clint reads them over. "So, you want to make soap, or blow some shit up instead?"

Natasha gives him a sort of crooked, knowing smile that makes his heart pound and Clint finds himself mesmerized for the next twelve minutes as she measures powder into a series of beakers. He spends far too much time studying her hands it's almost unhealthy (Is he turning into some kind of weird stalker?).

After that he starts a series of open ended, nonsensical conversations because the staring is bordering on creepy and he doesn't want her to think he's creepy. She's silent for the most part, nodding as he fills her in on the school and the general happenings. Who's who and all that.

"You're friends with that Stark boy," she says, though he detects a question.

"Tony? Yeah, he's sort of my foster brother. Bit of a handful. Likes to set my stuff on fire."

"He hit on me twice before the bell rang this morning," Natasha observes, watching the beaker of powder fizz in reaction to the flame beneath it. Her eyes never leave the experiment.

A strange alarm bell goes off in Clint's head and he suddenly has a fire-burning urge to smash Tony's face into a locker. He shakes it off, the heat pooling at the back of his neck and rolling down his spine. "That's pretty normal for him. How he functions in society. It's harmless. But I can talk to him, you know, if it bothers you."

She shrugs. Indifferent. "It doesn't."

"Okay. Well, anyway, Steve's alright."

"The quarterback?"

Clint would laugh at how quickly people pick up on who Steve and Tony are except he's still trying not to think that hard about Tony hitting on this girl. Tony hits on a lot of girls. Some of them even seem receptive to him, but for some reason it isn't okay this time. But they're not taking about Tony right now. They're talking about Steve. The all American who wouldn't know how to hit on a girl if she sat in his lap and offered him a drink. "Yeah," Clint says. "He's level headed at least. Has manners, too. Maybe a bit too many."

The solution in the beaker turns a bright green colour and foams into a solid. "You know, you talk an awful lot," Natasha comments, as Clint scoops the remnants of their soap from the beaker.

"Guess I figured one of us should if we were going to finish the lab. Nothing worse than a partner that doesn't communicate."

Natasha nods, not necessarily in agreement, just in acceptance. "So," she says as they tidy up. "What do you do at this fancy diner?"

"Hmm?"

"Before, you said you lived with a guy who owns a diner."

"Oh, right," Clint says. "Phil." Had he really told her all that already? Way to spill your guts Barton. "Well it's a lot of waiting tables. Dish washing. Whatever needs doing that night."

"So the guy takes you in, makes you work for him—"

"It's not like that," Clint says quickly, halting as she continues to wipe down the lab bench.

"So you don't work for him?" Natasha stops, too. They stare at each other from opposite sides of the bench.

"No, I do. It's just not the way you think it is. Phil pays me. Us. Tony. Steve. Sometimes Thor picks up shifts, I'm sure you'll meet him. His face'll probably be plastered everywhere as soon as he gets the lead in the school play." Phil's a good guy is what he means to say, but he's rambling. He knows how people think about foster kids. About foster families. That they're all in it for the money. And in a lot of cases it's true. But not with Phil. And Clint thinks he at least owes him that much. Telling people he's the kind of good guy that should have had a ranch full of kids because they would have been lucky.

"Do you always give the run down to the new kids?" Natasha asks as Clint follows her out of the class ten minutes later.

It's five minutes before he realizes he's followed her to her locker instead of to the parking lot.

"Uh, not really," he says, unsure of why she's any different. "Though in all honesty we don't get many new kids."

Natasha stuffs her books in her locker, the inside of her cheek caught between her teeth. "You know, if you want to make a good impression as the welcoming committee you could start by telling me your name."

"Clint," he says, rubbing the back of his head awkwardly before sticking out his hand. His name probably would have been a stellar thing to start with. He's told her all these things about himself but not that. They shake. "Clint Barton."

"Well, Clint Barton," Natasha says, "now that we're officially acquainted I think it's safe to tell you your fly's down."

Clint drops her hand and his heart stops. He doesn't even breathe. By the time he's righted himself Natasha is gone. He slumps against the lockers feeling like the worlds biggest idiot even while his hand tingles from the feel of her skin against his. Soft. Warm.

Jesus fuck, is he dead yet? His phone buzzes in his back pocket, rattling against the locker. He fishes it out, finding a text from Tony.

 **Where r u? U have the keys!**

It's followed quickly by another.

 **Hurry up. Schwarma emergency.**

Yeah, Clint thinks, watching the splash of red disappear into the sea of bodies. Definitely dead.


	3. Chapter 3

The Schwarma emergency is actually Tony's way of saying he has to meet some sketchy looking dude with a handle bar mustache in the parking lot outside the restaurant; the man offers him a grease stained brown paper bag in exchange for a wad of dollar bills.

Tony looks gleefully at the contents of the bag, shaking the prize over his head at the van. Bruce sits in the passenger seat beside Clint and grins in response.

Clint rolls his eyes. "You guys buying weird electronics from old cat men again?"

"This," Tony says, coming up beside the rolled down window next to Clint, "is worth it's weight in gold."

"Yes, I'm sure your shrink ray is that much closer to fruition," Clint gripes.

Steve chuckles and Thor cheers as he beats another level of candy crush on his phone.

"You know what, Barton," Tony says, "I'm not sure I like your sass. Sass is my job. I thought we had this ironed out."

"Yeah, yeah. Just get in the van so we can go home. Diner rush starts in two hours."

Tony shakes his head. "Not yet."

"What now?"

Tony gestures behind him, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline. "Schwarma, duh. What part of my text was unclear?" He slaps his hand against the door. "Now who's hungry? My treat."

Clint huffs and pulls the keys out of the ignition (there is no arguing with a pair of mad geniuses, a metabolic masterpiece of a football star, and whatever Thor is).

Tony waves a stack of ones in front of Clint. "You know you want some."

"Raid the tip jar again?" Clint says.

Tony looks taken aback. "What are you, a spy or something?"

"Just hurry up," he says as Thor slams the back door.

"Relax grandma. We'll bring you something so you're not so hangry."

Clint slumps down in the front seat and settles, flicking crumpled bits of paper at an ant hill while he waits. That's when he sees her again, passing across the dash. Natasha.

She's walking down the sidewalk, past the restaurant, eyes glued to one of those yellowing, dog-eared books. The kind that's been read a dozen times. The writing on the cover isn't in English. Probably Russian then. And yeah he can see it from here, don't ask him how. It's the same way he can narrow in on the targets during archery practice or read Steve's chicken scratch customer orders from across the diner to relay to Sam.

He watches her walk, maybe a little too eagerly, taking in everything he can. The sway of her hips, because yeah, she's got a nice body and the jeans hug everything just right, and he's not a dick about it like Tony, but he's also a guy and he notices these types of things without even trying.

Her hair grazes that midline between her shoulders and her elbows. It's probably longer than it looks, considering it's twisted in loose spirals that Clint thinks he could get lost in if he stared long enough. Girls here don't have hair like her. It's always bone straight, fried by hot irons and blonde. That kind of blonde that doesn't really exist. One shade from Casper.

But this is red. Like fire and passion and every emotion that's ever made Clint's heart swell and beat with intensity. The feeling he gets when he lifts his bow and draws back the string. It's that breath just before he releases. Natasha makes him feel like that.

This girl he barely knows.

She turns into the apartment complex, ducking into the door of the six story walk-up. Clint files that away for later.

"You okay, Barton? You're drooling a bit."

Clint jumps as Tony hops into the passenger seat, the hot smell of grease and frying cheese engulfing the van and making him dizzy.

"Headache," he lies as Tony stuffs a foil wrapped gyro in his hand, lips pursed in concern.

He pulls out of the parking lot, skidding onto the road, the van filled with mumbled conversations and loud swallows.

Clint thinks of little for the rest of the night besides Natasha. Phil pulls him aside during his shift (he's working the counter tonight mainly handing out pie) and asks if anything's wrong.

"You seem distracted," he says. "Everything okay at school, today?"

"Yeah," Clint says, besides his obvious infatuation with a girl that either thinks he's the worlds biggest idiot or a complete creep, "everything's fine."

"Alright." Phil let's it go, though Clint knows it isn't over.

He has to get his shit together. He has to get over this spell. And the only way he knew how to do that is to research. Research and investigate. Look at all the angles. Until there's no room for error. Until he knows his target like the back of his hand.

Natasha Romanoff (Romanov, whatever) had just become his mission.

He spends the next two weeks conducting his research.

He begins by sitting next to her.

He glares down at Sitwell who currently holds his desired spot. With an easy flick of his head the bug-eyed kid scurries away. Being friends (foster brothers) with both Steve and Tony has its perks, one of them being status. Clint doesn't usually use it because he doesn't care enough about what other people think of him, but this is different.

This is like science. Not the biology he's currently pretending to be invested in, but more of a social experiment.

He sits.

Natasha looks over curiously and sips her drink, wide green eyes staring at him over top of the rim. Tea, he notes. Chai, according to the tag.

They don't do much speaking for the first few days except to exchange instructions during chemistry. Clint begins the next experiment by switching lab tables. To his surprise (and immediate glee) Natasha follows him. Apparently this thing-this partnership-is a thing now.

On Thursday he scopes out her lunch time hiding spot and on Friday beats her to the alcove in the third floor stairwell overlooking the track. It's a nice spot actually. Private. Quiet.

"Are you following me?" she asks, halting her walk as she comes up near him.

"Free country," he says nonchalant, "but you're welcome to join me."

She does, though she looks apprehensive about it, leaving a great deal of space between them on the ledge. Clint smiles though and tears into his sandwich. Pastrami and Swiss. With horseradish dressing. God he loves Sam.

He continues this way into the next week.

"What are you doing?" she finally asks him one lunch. There's less space between them now, but only minutely.

"Eating."

"I mean here, with me."

He shrugs. "Being friendly. It's a small school, hard to fit in if you're not from around here."

She smiles a sad little smile and Clint doesn't like the way it makes her lips quirk. "That's a nice thought, Clint. But you don't want to be friends with me. Save yourself the trouble."

She leaves after that without even letting him reply. The way she says his name makes his heart thud in his throat, all strangled and husky like. She doesn't go to chemistry that day so he never gets a chance to see her.

And when he shows up in the stairwell the next day for lunch she isn't there. He eats alone instead of going back to the cafeteria. His mission had just become a tad more confusing.

Being the kind of guy who doesn't let up, and also the kind of guy good at seeking out hiding spaces (just a foster kid thing), he tracks down Natasha's new lunchtime hangout within a day. She's moved to the roof top between the courtyard and the gym. It's surrounded by a low brick wall leaving you nearly invisible to the crowds below. He found it his first year at SHIELD, having climbed the ladder behind the greenhouse for access.

He stalks up behind her, all stealth and sure footing, so he's surprised when she looks over her shoulder at him before he's even half way across the roof. Her shoulders lift at his presence, protectively rising up towards her ears. He holds his hands up.

"I thought I told you this wasn't a good idea."

"Yeah, well, I'm not great at taking advice. Specially when I don't want to." He offers up his best t his is oka y smile and flops down beside her.

She's got a textbook open and her chin propped on her knees. Her lunch is no where to be seen.

"Did you eat already?" he asks, casual, though the question isn't casual. It's a foster kid thing. You learn to count your meals.

"What's it to you?"

"That means no."

He offers up half his sandwich but she doesn't accept.

"What are you doing?" she asks again, eyes narrowed on the words at her feet. She's trying hard not to look at him and Clint doesn't know why, but he sighs and drops the sandwich back into the wrapper.

"I don't know," he says honestly, staring out at the horizon. The sun is round and hot at his back, and the sweat is starting to bead along his brow. He looks at his feet, plugging his hands into the rocky ground. The gravel is cool beneath his fingers. Cooling his thoughts.

"You don't know me," she says.

"I know. But I want to."

"Why?"

"Because you're stuck in my head. And I can't get you out."

Natasha looks up then. Her eyes are red rimmed, kind of like Tony's after he's pulled a couple all-nighters finishing up a big project.

Clint wants to know why. He wants to know everything about her. Unravel this mystery that's been presented to him. But he can't if she won't let him. He needs her to let him.

She sighs gently, eyes drifting away. "I don't make a good friend, Clint."

He smiles then as he sees her relax, her shoulders dropping and her eyes coming back to meet his briefly. There's something curious in them. Something like wonder, and Clint smiles in return. "I have no expectations," he tells her.

"What do you want from me?"

"Just this," he says, settling back against the wall and biting into his sandwich. "This is good."

They continue this way for almost a month. They eat, they talk; well mostly Clint talks and Natasha listens. Sometimes she laughs at the things he says. It's always this husky sort of giggle, a sound of disbelief and it makes his heart thump.

He introduces her to the guys. He starts with Steve because he knows he'll make a good impression and works his way up to Tony who gives him a wicked thumbs up in response. They don't hang out with them just yet; Natasha's not ready.

Instead they share secret smiles during class and in the hall, never needing more than that. This thing between them is fragile and tentative and Clint knows he could scare her away, so he doesn't ask for any more from her. Nothing. Until the day he does.

"So you want to do something after class today?" he asks.

She stops mid swallow, her soup-a thick and chunky looking broth-crowding her cheeks. It slides down her throat slowly and she wipes her sleeve across her pretty pink lips.

"I can't," she says quickly. "I have to get home."

He nods, a real slow kind of movement, mulling her words over. Then he asks, "Sure it's just not me?"

She hurries to assure him. "No, Clint . . . it's just. I have to go back . . . my uncle . . . he'll worry." She worries her lip then like she's said too much.

Clint watches her closely, the way her eyes narrow and void every time she brings up her uncle. Ivan. He hasn't heard much about him, except that he's around. Her mother's brother. Her mom is dead. Clint has a hollow, worrying feeling in the pit of his gut.

"Okay," he tells her. "S'not a big deal."

"Clint-"

"Look, I know it's something okay. And I also know you won't talk about it because I've been there. The first five foster families bailed on me. The last four before Phil were ones I ditched before something bad could go down."

"It's not like that," she says, trying with everything inside her to sound convincing.

"I know. But it's something." Clint packs his garbage away into his bag except for a tiny piece of scrap. He scrounges around for a pen and pops the lid off with his teeth.

Natasha goes to stand.

"Wait," he says, stuffing the scrap between her fingers.

"What is this?" she asks.

"We're in a band."

"A . . . what?"

"Me, Tony, Steve. In a band. With Bruce and Thor. You know, the guys."

The confusion on Natasha's face only intensifies. "And?"

Clint stands next to her, rubbing his hands down his thighs before stuffing them into his pockets and rocking back on his feet. "We're playing tonight. At the foxhound. It's a club on Richmond, but it has an underage night twice a month. Come downtown tonight? See us play?"

"I told you I can't. It's a school night."

"I know. Figured I'd give you the address anyway. In case something changes."

Natasha flat out refuses. "It won't."

He smiles anyway. "Remember I told you I had no expectations?"

Natasha doesn't answer to that. Instead she shoves the paper in her pocket and asks, "What d'you play anyway?"

Clint strings his bag over his shoulder. "Guitar. I'm better at piano, but the set we're doing doesn't really use it."

There's the flicker of a smile on her face, like a memory's been lifted from somewhere. "I'll see you around, Clint," she says, and then she's gone.

He watches after the spot where she disappears, a memory of red. His heart thumps. And he wonders if he'll see her tonight; if maybe the fates will smile on him and it'll be her glowing face staring up from the crowd.


	4. Chapter 4

"Hey, Muscles, toss this in the car for me, yeah?" Tony says to Steve as he rushes back through the diner to find their sheet music. It's almost seven. They take the stage at eight and they still have to pack and unpack. Good thing Thor's available to help with the heavy lifting at the club.

Clint's in a trance, hanging over the counter like a sloth, reworking some of the music for tonight, again, while Steve mumbles his way through some lyrics he's got written down on a paper napkin. He stuffs it in his pocket like he's meant for no one to see; like Clint doesn't know he's been working on some original work. If the guy would give himself have a chance he'd probably have something great, just like the art work he keeps hidden in sketchbooks beneath his bed. He knows why Steve's so paranoid about it. Being known as the quarterback, the football star, there goes Cap, doesn't exact lend itself to being artist of the year. People have come to expect things from Steve, and being the kind of guy who's eager to please, he does what they expect.

Tony blows by him, the wind ruffling his hair, and Bruce toddles out the door like a penguin, a heavy amp strung between his arms.

Clint sighs and stuffs the new chord transitions in his bag as Tony lays on the horn.

The club is a cacophony of sounds. Noise and laughter, and from Bruce, slight panic because the tech isn't working properly which means the sound will be off which means . . .

Thor gives the system a great pound with his fist and the whole thing sparks to life. His smile is glowing as Bruce thumps him on the back. "Give me two minutes," he says, adjusting dials and shoving a series of levers up. He and Tony have made some modifications to the sound board over the months and there's so many buttons that Clint's almost positive the thing can toast a bagel for you if you press them in the right order.

Tony jumps on stage and the crowd goes a little wild (mostly because they're drunk off the atmosphere), but the sound goes right to his head none the less and he waves like a rock god, both arms spread wide as he introduces the band.

Clint takes that as his cue and walks to the middle of the stage near Tony, tuning his guitar. He kicks the wires behind him so he won't trip on them half way through the set. When Steve's settled into his seat, twirling a set of drumsticks between his fingers (Clint taught him how), Tony nods to Bruce and the night really begins.

The swell of the bass and thump, thump of the beat fills Clint with crazy energy that squeezes around his heart. It's that same feeling he gets when he spots Natasha coming down the hall. That though sparks something hopeful in him and he starts to scan the crowd. Maybe. Just maybe . . .

He spots Bobbi in the group near the front and it's awkward, mainly because he doesn't know exactly what happened there, only that he wasn't really into it from the beginning (guess that's what he gets from listening to Tony). She waves, all fingers and batting eyelashes, and he has to look away, turning from the crowd to catch his breath and join Steve for a solo. The drums bang the thoughts from his head (Steve's down a tempo so he slows down his strumming) until his only focus is the beat. And when he turns around he purposely skims over the crowd where he knows Bobbi's dancing.

He doesn't want to deal with that tonight.

Or any night really.

While he's artfully avoiding looking at anyone in particular, squinting into the beams of spot light, a familiar flash of red catches his attention. He spots her tucked away in a corner and he almost misses the next chord transition (almost but not quite; it's muscle memory at this point).

The waitress hovering at the back moves to deliver a platter of onion rings, revealing Natasha. She's perched on a bar stool at a stand alone table near the back.

There's something freeing about seeing her here, the way she moves with the music, nodding her head, like it might be something pouring from her headphones, something only the two of them can hear. She meets his eyes and then quickly turns away, and he's not sure if he sees her blush, but he gives her a brilliant smile anyway.

He can tell she tries not to smile in return, but her cheeks are pink and her lips stay caught between her teeth.

Clint's so happy he contemplates bursting off the stage and launching himself into the crowd. He doesn't even care if they don't catch him at this point. He feels likes he's free falling and it's the best feeling ever. The music swells again just as Tony hits the high part and Thor gives them a thumbs up from the wings.

Clint feels alive, head full of guitar riffs and cymbal crashes. It's a good night.

When the set ends and another teenage bands scurries on stage to set up, Clint throws the guitar around his back and jumps into the crowd. Tony yells after him about helping wrap the cords and carry the amps, but the only thing Clint can hear is the blood pounding in his ears: lub, dub, lub, dub.

As he nears Natasha, some of the white noise starts to fade and he's able to make out the sounds: clinking glass, laughter, shrieks of excitement.

He's acutely aware that he's sweating like a pig. The lights on stage are terribly hot.

"I thought you couldn't get away," he says, realizing how breathless he sounds as he leans against her table.

Natasha gives a weak shrug, playing with the bag strung over her shoulder. "My uncle had business tonight; I didn't think he'd miss me for a few hours."

Clint doesn't bother to ask what kind of business is conducted at nine o'clock at night, he doesn't have to.

"You hungry?" he says instead. "I thought maybe you'd want to come back to the diner? Get a sandwich? All the guys'll be there. Thor might bring Jane and her weird friend Darcy. They're alright."

Natasha frowns in that way that is meant to be an apology. "It's already too late. I should really get back."

Clint can't deny the low feeling he gets in his gut. "Are you sure? I mean, I could drive you home right after. We wouldn't be long."

"Sorry, Clint," she says with a weak smile. "See you at school?"

And the fact that the question sounds so unsure, like she thinks he might not want to see her since she keeps turning him down makes him sad and he squeezes her hand before he lets her leave. "Of course. See you tomorrow."

Natasha gives him another tight smile and then slips into the crowd. He loses her when Bobbi comes into his line of sight and he has to sprint backstage to avoid that interaction.

"Where have you been?" Tony gripes as soon as he slips into the wings.

"Dealing with something," Clint says. He grabs the biggest amp to quiet Tony and stalks out the back door to the van where Steve and Bruce are loading the instruments.

"Did I see Natasha in the crowd?" Steve asks casually, stuffing is drums sticks in the side pocket of the van door. There's a collection of them in there.

Clint nods.

"Everything good?" he wonders and Clint nods again. Steve's always been too perceptive for his own good.

* * *

The next day when he shows up to first period there's an oddly shaped bruise on Natasha's wrist as she lifts her arm to sip her tea; okay not odd exactly, familiar in the parallel stripes, I've-seen-this-before sort of way. Clint has seen that before, on his own skin, when he's been held to tight. He knows it'll hurt like bitch, too, if it doesn't already. Feels like your bones might snap if you move too fast.

He doesn't ask about it because he knows what she'll say. She'll deny it. And when he sits and starts up a conversation like he hasn't seen anything, Natasha looks relieved.

His gut does a somersault that more painful than anything and he drums his pencil into his desk so hard that the lead breaks. He doesn't bother to fix it. For the rest of the day he doesn't bother with anything. There's a hot fire of memory that bleeds through his skin-heavy back hands, and harsh words, and nights spent alone without food. The only thing he can really manage is to keep his hands from curling into fists and punching the first thing he sees.

He goes to shoot that afternoon, hoping to shake off the unwanted feelings. He's been good for a couple years now. He's been good since Phil came into his life. God he should tell the man that. Thank him for picking his sorry ass out of gutter, for giving him a home that might not get him addicted to drugs or shipped off to juvie.

Rolling his shoulders like that might be able to shake the images, Clint sets up the targets on the back lot of the school. He runs the safety rope and puts out the caution-I-will-shoot-you-in-the-face signs. Thor sits on a bench outside the danger zone to spot him, running play lines with the wind (he got the part; no surprise there). But Clint blocks him out. Romeo's getting a bit too enthusiastic considering he's without a Juliette right now.

Clint shoots fifty arrows. He misses the target twice. Something that only happens when he's bothered or angry. Only he knows this though, so Thor congratulates him as he helps him pack away the equipment.

Clint grips his bow a little harder on his walk back to the diner and for the first time in a long time it feels like a weapon.


	5. Chapter 5

It's three weeks before Clint manages to get Natasha to come to the diner. It's been a couple months since they started talking and though she's met the guys, he wants to introduce her to Phil. He doesn't know why (he never introduced Bobbi to Phil, officially), but for some reason this feels like the next step (to what he doesn't know). Natasha's the kind of girl he wants to tell everyone about. He wants them to know she's his friend, that she's started to trust him, open up to him. That they share a stairwell or a rooftop or even the very end of the guys' table at lunch just to talk about anything and everything.

He's wants people to know he's the one that makes her lips curl and her eyes crinkle with laughter. That she looks to him when she's overwhelmed in the middle of the hall, still trying to figure out her way around SHIELD.

Natasha's still somewhat closed off. Still not very forthcoming regarding her life and her family. Like everyone, she has her secrets (some of them darker than Clint probably wants to admit). But Clint's peeling back the layers, slowly, and the more he does, the more he feels they have in common. Like maybe he's found someone besides Steve and Tony who understand what it's like to grow up in a home that isn't exactly perfect. To be looked at like more of a problem than a person.

He feels like Natasha knows what it is to have to prove yourself, to prove your worth, and for someone that's not even legal yet, that can feel like the hardest thing in the world.

He knows that she knows these things and he's working on showing her that he knows them too, and that he's here, when she's ready.

Yeah, it's been one of those weeks. And he's been thinking a lot. That sappy existentialist kind of mumbo-jumbo that usually gives him a headache. He blames Simmons (you know you can call me Jemma, Clint) and all the therapy sessions Phil makes him go to (It's good for your mental health, Clint. You'll thank me when you're older). She used to just come in to the diner once a week for a turkey club, on rye, hold the mayo; she still comes in for that, but also for a series of sessions with him and Tony and Steve.

She's nice as far as therapists go. Clint's been interviewed by worse. And she deals with Tony's incessant need to hit on all females within an arm's reach well. (Natasha says this is because he has severe narcissistic tendencies.)

Clint huffs a laugh, startling Natasha as they walk. He bumps her shoulder encouragingly and they fall in line again.

She's so freaking smart, it blindsides him sometimes. Like how is a runaway from Waverly, Iowa supposed to measure up to that? But then she looks at him, or slows down in the hall to wait until his steps fall in line with hers, and he'll shiver all over with a kind of warmth that makes it impossible to shake the smile from his face.

Yeah, it's been one of those weeks too. The mess of butterflies on constant alert in his gut are starting to make him feel like he might lift right off the ground.

He takes a deep breath of pine laced air to clear his head, but the only thing it does is make him more aware of how close Natasha is.

He wants to reach out and hold her hand as they walk side by side down the street. He hasn't seen her so carefree in, well, ever, and he finds out (at least he suspects) that it's because her Uncle's out of town for the weekend.

She laughs at a joke he's made unintentionally, and the sound snaps him out of his thoughts. Out of musings over the dark finger prints that hide just beneath the collar of her shirt and the bruising that is still fading from around her wrist.

He doesn't ignore it, because he can't, knowing that it's there, but he files it away for later, content enough in the fact that she's happy and smiling, right now, with him.

The sunken tree line they walk along fades to a sprawling acreage of field with the diner spilling out right against the road. It's wooden porch and faded paint-peel give it a rustic, homey kind of feel. They cross the parking lot, teeming with soccer mom vans at this time in the afternoon and Clint hops the two steps up the porch before stopping and smiling widely. "This is it," he says proudly, displaying his home with wide arms.

Natasha scans the window displays like a food critic and for a second Clint's nervous. "You're called Sunny-side Up and you don't serve eggs for breakfast?" she says.

Clint lets out a strangled breath, so much relief flooding his chest he almost wants to laugh as he skips down the stairs to grab her hand, to pull her up after him. "We're a sandwich shop," he tells her plainly, the same way Phil always answers when people inquire. Clint doesn't miss the fact that his hand is warm and firm around hers and she doesn't pull away. Not until they're standing right outside the door.

"You're a diner," Natasha argues flatly.

Clint shrugs. "Phil doesn't like eggs."

"This is all very backwards."

"Is that a deal breaker?"

"I don't know yet," she confesses. "How good are these sandwiches?"

With that Clint's in his element. "I recommend the pastrami. Warmed up so the cheese melts. With a little bit of sauerkraut."

"Can't go wrong with sauerkraut," Natasha agrees.

"Right? It's definitely a condiment that never gets enough credit."

"Well good thing you're here advocating for condiment rights."

Clint pulls the door and the bell overhead jingles. "Har, har, Romanoff," (Yeah he's Americanized her last name) "Just wait until you taste it, then you can check your sarcasm at the door."

She smirks at him and there's something playful in her eyes that sends Clint's pulse racing as she breezes by him, the sweet smell of vanilla and orange blossoms trailing in her wake. It's her shampoo and if Clint's not careful it's going to make him light headed in the best way.

Natasha's paused just inside the door, naturally. The diner is a chaotic mess of regulars barking orders and snapping pictures and laughing riotously. The usual Saturday afternoon. But to a newbie it looks like an utter disaster of people crawling in other people's personal space. He can tell, by the way her eyes widen, that Natasha doesn't even know where to start; so he takes her hand again (it's easier that way) and leads her towards the counter where Peggy's manning the till like a boss.

She's got orders taped up in front of the window for Sam to read off, circulation trays ready to go out at the first sign of a new customer, and even her red lips are on point.

Peggy gives him a smile and a nod as he passes, Natasha in tow. He returns with a wave, watching her diplomatically turn down another marriage proposal from Albert Foss. The guy's a regular (pain in the ass), but he eats his weight here every weekend and tips generously, so Peggy puts up with him.

Steve doesn't though.

He comes out of the kitchen, hands damp and a towel strung over his shoulder. Arms crossed against his broad, broad chest, he comes to stand by Peggy, his face turned down in a scowl.

Good old Al has the decency to look intimidated as Steve looms over him. The man tips his hat to Peggy and pays his bill before turning away and slinking off between a group of rowdy customers.

Peggy places her hand on Steve's shoulder, a soft smile on her lips. She pats him twice good naturally before she rushes off to attend to an elderly man who's just upended the coat rack by the front door.

"Hey," Steve says, turning to see Clint, his face immediately brightening. "Didn't think you were working today?"

"I'm not," Clint says, nodding behind him. "Just giving a tour."

Steve nods, all polite and mild mannered, to Natasha. She gives him one of her brilliant smiles and he blushes.

"Yo, Rogers, it's starting to pile up back here. I'm gunna have to start sending sandwiches out on garbage can lids if you don't get me some plates soon!" Sam calls from inside the kitchen. With that Steve hurries away, leaving Natasha snickering into Clint's ear.

"He's sort of adorable the way he blushes every time I talk to him."

"Yeah," Clint agrees, "sort of like a lost puppy."

He leads her a little ways down the counter to the dessert window where Phil is engrossed in his favourite thing ever: putting whip cream on the pie pieces. His face is a mask of pure concentration, his tongue knotted between his lips.

"Phil," Clint greets and when the man looks up his eyes soften, wrinkles of kindness gathering at the corners.

"Natasha Romanov," he says, his pronunciation a thing for Clint to envy as he leans over the counter, "it's nice to finally meet you. Clint's told us almost nothing about you."

Natasha looks momentarily surprised as Phil reaches out and shakes her hand with both of his. It's fatherly. It's nice. And Clint reminds himself to tell Phil how great he really is.

After a moment Natasha just smiles.

"I haven't really given him much to work with," she confesses.

"Well, it's good to have you here. Don't leave without trying the pie. On the house." Phil scurries away after Tony who's been at the same table for the last five minutes, flirting, while customers bang on their tables for more coffee.

Clint tugs on Natasha's sleeve and jerks his head. She follows him into a back room stacked with chairs and paper plates. There's a wide galley window that over looks the front room.

"He knew I was coming?" she asks.

Clint ducks his head (it's not like he was counting down the days or anything). "I kind of told him maybe, plus Phil just knows everything." He pulls out a chair for her around the small staff table and she plops down. "He used to be the guidance counselor until he started fostering. SHIELD's the only high school in this area so he gave it up—you know, conflict of interest and everything. But don't let that fool you. He and Fury are tight. They play pool and drink beers twice a week. What one knows, the other knows. So no playing hooky." He leans against the edge of the table and shrugs. "Anyway, this is the place. Want the actual grand tour?"

"Sure."

"Well, you saw Peggy," he rhymes off, counting down on his fingers. "She runs cash during the day. Waitresses when it's busy. Pretty much deals with all the front end bull-crap. She's good like that. She's taking night classes. Going to be some government big-wig someday."

"Yeah?"

Clint nods. "If she handles congress the way she handles the till then America's in for good things." He points towards the swinging kitchen door. There's a faded picture of an army jet blasting through the sky taped up. "That's Sam's domain. He's the cook."

"He another one of Phil's strays?"

Clint can't help the grin that curls his lips as he cocks his head and pushes the door open enough for Natasha to see inside.

She's caught off guard by the man at the grill. He's shorter than Steve but handsome, with some swag dance moves. They're both rocking out to an easy rock station.

Clint chuckles and closes the door. "Sam's ex-air force. Old friends with Phil. Sam was looking for a quiet place to settle down. We needed someone in the kitchen. It was all kind of perfect."

He points her attention down a back hall then. "Phil's office," he says, "door to the house. And that's pretty much it. Tony, Steve and I swap out on doing dishes and orders after school and on weekends. And we have a couple day ladies that work on and off."

"It's cute," Natasha says, looking around with a new familiarity. "In a no nonsense, no eggs kind of way."

"I'm glad you get it. So, you hungry yet?"

"Sure. What's good on the menu today?"

"Everything," Clint assures. "Steve's the tested and true trial for all products."

Clint ends up making Natasha one of the Pastrami specials with a side of real potato chips. He makes one for himself as well (okay he eats one while he's working, so it's really his second by the time he sits back down with her), but he did a lot of walking this morning, so it's okay, he could use the carbs.

As they're finishing off their lunch, Natasha flicking stray potato chip crumbs at him which he deflects expertly, there's a flurry of commotion from the kitchen and then Steve goes barreling by them, sliding to a stop by the galley window. "She's here. She's here," he all but squeals.

Clint wipes his face on a napkin and stands. Natasha joins them both at the window.

"What is it?" she wonders with an arched brow.

Just as she does Tony shoots by them.

"Table three, waiting on an order," Steve hisses at him.

"Shut up, I'm going," Tony whispers, running his hands through his hair and straightening his shirt, the one that proudly displays the diner's logo.

"No wait, you've got flour on your chin," Steve says, chucking a dishtowel through the window at him. "What were you doing, stirring the batter with your tongue?"

Natasha watches the exchange with wide eyes, trying to get a look at the tall strawberry blonde that's taken up the booth at the far end of the diner.

Tony marches away, head high, shoulders back, oozing confidence.

"He's going to get shot down again," Steve says dejectedly.

Clint snorts. "Tony's gunna owe us like five thousand dollars by the time this bet's over."

"It's okay," Steve says, "he'll have the money by then."

Natasha follows the line of Tony's body, the ease at which he's positioned, the way his hands move as he talks, that cocky smile.

The girl (woman?) in the booth just shakes her head and pushes the menu back towards him.

"She always comes back," Clint mutters, "so he can't be that offensive, can he?"

"Maybe she just likes watching him flounder every time," Steve says with a shrug.

When Tony walks back their way he's grinning like a moron (a bigger moron than usual that is). He snaps a piece of paper in front of their faces. "Got a last name, suckers!" He leans back against the window for a second, reveling in his victory. "Pepper Potts, how sweet is doth name?"

"You've been hanging out with Thor too much," Steve tells him, heading back towards the kitchen. Tony follows him inside to make her order: a raspberry tea, one sugar.

"I don't get it," Clint sighs, watching Pepper pull out a file full of notes and begin scratching through the content vigorously with a red pen. "Maybe she just really likes the tea?"

"She comes for the boiled water? As if." Natasha chuckles. "Girls don't come to a diner every Saturday for tea just because."

The way Natasha stares at him then makes Clint wonder. And not for the first time he's left dissecting what really goes on inside a girl's head.


	6. Chapter 6

Monday is the best day ever according to Clint, mainly since it's a short day because there's a football game. It's also the first home game of the year and everyone's going-even Natasha, which surprises and elates Clint the way a new pack of fletchings does.

Everyone's decked out in black and gold. Natasha's got his hoodie on (he'd offered and she'd accepted), the one with the eagle mascot emblazoned across the chest, and a set of black lines beneath painted beneath her eyes. It makes the green pop and Clint has a hard time looking away from the dark, dark lashes she bats at him. It's the end of October and though it hasn't been cold enough to snow, they're in those last few days of fall and it leaves her cheeks flushed a permanent pink. It's embarrassing how much it makes him want to kiss her.

He doesn't, of course; God, she'd probably deck him, but jeez does he want to. Still, his eyes wander and his heart beats and he has to admit that the hoodie looks much better on her. Better with her red hair sprawled all over. Better in the way it hugs her chest and bunches at her wrists. Better because he knows it'll smell like vanilla and orange blossoms when he finally gets it back.

"Where're we sitting?" she asks as they trek out towards the football field. The crowds are thick and they walk so close their elbows bump. He knocks into her and she knocks back, both of them grinning for no reason.

"Tony's saving us seats," he answers, stuffing his hands into his pockets; the urge to grab hers is too strong. "We have specific seats at the front of the stands." He rolls his eyes then and she takes notice. "Phil likes to record the games."

"Does he always come?" she wonders with something that sounds like intrigue, though Clint knows that tone. It's disbelief. The first year he lived with Phil he asked the same sorts of questions each time the diner owner wanted to be involved in his life-school meetings, parent-teacher conferences, archery competitions. The works. Phil was there. No questions asked.

"Yes," Clint says, and his chest fills with warmth at the thought. "Every game."

"So who's in charge of the diner when he's gone?"

Clint barks a laugh. "Peggy and Sam have it covered. Those two tag teaming are like . . . I don't know. Peggy's a one woman army and Sam, well . . . they don't make you special ops for nothing."

"Phil has quite the collection working for him."

"Yeah, a collection of misfits," Clint says, smiling to himself. "But we all fit."

They're quiet for a moment after that. The crowds move slower closer to the field, the wind picks up. And if Natasha pushes herself a little closer to him, Clint doesn't mind.

"Is that Ms. Hill?" she asks suddenly as the history teacher marches by them.

Clint jerks his head, positioning himself between Natasha and the wind. "Steve's got a pretty big fan club. Most athletic talent to come out of this town in a while. There's high hopes for him."

As he says it Fury slips around them, nodding once.

Natasha smirks. "Didn't think he ever left his office."

Clint doesn't smile. "I'm serious about the Steve thing. It's like a betting pool and everything,"

Natasha purses her lips, perhaps contemplating the morality of betting on seventeen year old minor, but instead she says, "Well I've heard you're pretty good with a bow?"

"And who'd you hear that from?" Clint asks as he's flooded with a heat that has nothing to do with gratitude or warm fuzzies about Phil. She's just given him a compliment. And not the back-handed sarcastic kind he's used to getting from Tony.

Natasha shrugs. "Just . . . around."

They're almost at the gates when she freezes beside him, not out of cold, but from shock and a very un-Natasha like squeal escapes her lips. Clint hasn't known her long but he's known her long enough to know that isn't normal.

She sprints away from him then and into the crowd.

Clint follows, craning his neck and pushing between the cheerleaders that have amassed at the gates. When he finds Natasha in the crowd she's bee-lining towards a leather bound, stringy haired guy waiting by the entrance.

She runs up and wraps her arms around his waist, head buried against his chest. He brings one arm up to catch her, the momentum sending them both rocking. He's tall and broad, his hair long and black like night, his eyes just as dark.

Clint stiffens; his chest turns to ice, shattering the warmth from before.

Throat suddenly dry, Clint licks his lips and tries to swallow. It feels kind of like he's got a bunch of sand in his throat and it sucks.

Natasha pulls away from the guy with a beaming sort of smile before reaching up to whisper something in his ear. As she does, she presses a ticket into his hand. He nods and slips between the gates.

She waltzes back towards Clint, hands stuffed in her pocket and a twisted smile on her face as she watches her shoes.

"Who's the guy?" Clint asks. He doesn't mean for it to sound like that. Like he's severley jealous of this stranger. (He's severely jealous of this stranger.) He'd kind of like to just go back to when Tony was hitting in her instead.

"Bucky?" She shrugs, chewing on her lip. "Just someone from back home. He came over a few years before I did."

"Oh," is Clint's only response because he honestly doesn't know what to think.

Natasha watches him for a moment, before nodding to herself. She grabs his arm because he seems to have forgotten how to walk, or he's just been cemented in place with an onslaught of nasty feelings, and escorts him through the gates and towards the front of the stands where the group has gathered, including Bucky.

Tony and Bruce this new addition warily.

Thor just chows down on a foot-long hot dog, looking content as ever.

Clint spies other's in the stands as well. Darcy, Jane. The assistant coach is talking to Phil. They call him Happy. There's nothing happy about gym class when he runs his calisthenics program.

They climb the stands, making their way towards them all.

"Doesn't he go to school?" Clint asks Natasha as Bucky stares wide-eyed down the field, kind of looking like a deer caught in traffic. His expression is mostly hidden by sheets of black hair, but from this angle Clint can see his eyes, curiously hovering over the area where Steve has stopped to talk to Phil.

He's got his helmet off and the pregame sweat has tufted his hair in a bedhead sort of ensemble Tony should be jealous of. His cheeks are pink and round as he laughs at something Happy says. In his uniform Steve is all muscled angles and chiseled . . . well, everything. If Clint was a girl he'd be drooling. Heck, even as a guy he has to admit: Steve's a cut of perfection. Like puberty stuffed him in a bottle, added some magic growth hormone and popped out one ready made . . . he doesn't really know what Steve is.

"He dropped out," Natasha whispers before they reach Bucky. "Had to get a job and work when his dad died. Not as easy as everyone claims in the land of opportunity." She steps over a pair of legs and slides between another.

Clint follows and now he hates himself for asking because he feels obligated to feel sorry for the guy when all he wants to do is knock his front teeth in.

They settle in beside Bucky, Natasha sandwiched between them, and Clint spends the entirety of the game watching the two of them, the easy way they banter, half in English, half in Russian, and though he doesn't understand a single freaking word, Clint can't help but feel like they're talking about him, especially when Bucky jerks his head and Natasha makes a bunch of hushing noises that leave her red faced and entirely too engrossed in her shoe laces.

At half time Tony wanders by them and plops down on Clint's other side.

"Who's the new guy?" he mutters.

"Natasha's friend. Bucky."

"I like him," Tony says. "He's got that whole forlorn, misunderstood rebel thing going on."

Clint's waiting for the point. He's also contemplating hiding the rest of Tony's socks for the week. If he can count on anyone it should be Tony (highly judgmental Tony) to dislike this new development almost as much as him.

"I want him for the band," Tony continues.

"What?" Clint says and the disbelief is evident in his voice.

Tony's face splits in a wide grin. "Think about it."

"I am."

"You're not or you'd be just as happy."

"You know," Natasha says, leaning forward in her seat to look at the two of them, "we can hear everything you're saying."

"Even better," Tony starts, leaning over enough to see past Natasha. "You speak English?"

Bucky doesn't respond. Just sits stoically still.

Tony's nonplussed. "No, eh, doesn't matter. Can you strum? Like a beat, a chord, anything?"

Bucky mutters something to Natasha in Russian and she nods, her smile pulling tight. "He's only got one hand," she says.

"Amputation?" Tony questions.

Natasha nods. "They had to take it after an infection set in. The part of Russia we came from wasn't exactly known for its medical care."

Tony looks intrigued, for what reason Clint can't even comprehend. All he knows is that Tony wants a guy with one arm to be their bassist. Clint glances down at the leather sleeve that drops off on Bucky's left arm, covering nothing.

"Banner," Tony calls standing on the bench and stepping on them to navigate his way back to his seat. "I have a proposition for you."

As he sits back down they overhear a conversation that perhaps isn't meant for them to hear, but Tony hasn't ever really given any thought to proper social etiquette.

"This is it. This is what we do for the competition. A fully functional prosthetic. Nerve innervation. Everything."

Bruce adjusts his glasses up his nose. "Are you mad. Do you know what would be required to do that?"

"Yes, and I know we could do it."

"Tony, to do what you're suggesting would take months. And money. Money we don't have. The SHIELD budget for this project is basically zero."

Tony drums his fingers against his lips. "So we find some sponsors. Big deal. I'm sure the Stark name still has some connections somewhere."

Bruce frowns and resumes recording. Steve's been decimating the second half of the game while they've been occupied. The only one actively watching him is Bucky.

"Come on Banner. Might be exactly that extra credit thing you need to get into MIT, right?"

Bruce sighs. "Have you even asked him if he wants to be apart of it? We'd need a test subject, preferably one with an amputation if you intend on doing what you've said."

Tony flips his head around. "You in, dude? Can we build you a new arm?"

Bucky mutters to Natasha, still following the game.

"What's in it for him?" she asks.

"Free pie," Tony says. "As much as he can eat."

Bucky shrugs and Natasha nods. "He'll do it."

Phil turns around at that and clears his throat. "Take it out of my paycheck," Tony says. "Come on, Banner, we have things to plan."

He drags Bruce up by his collar and they stalk down the stands as people collectively raise their arms to cheer. At that the entire group looks around to see they've won the game (unsurprisingly) and Steve is being tackled in the middle of the field by the rest of them team. Phil picks up the camera and resumes filming. Fury and Hill stand side by side and exchange what looks to be a wade of dollar bills.

Clint follows Thor down to the field to greet Steve once he's exercised himself from the dog pile.

He's grinning with that post game adrenaline rush.

Clint feels Natasha sidle up beside him, closer than he's used to and he chalks it up to the cold. He also feels Bucky's shadow over him. The guy's almost as tall as Steve.

When Steve finally looks at them, running over to make post-game plans, he skids in his tracks, and Clint follows his gaze around to Bucky.

"Uh, hi," Steve mumbles, eyes unusually wide.

He fiddles with his helmet like a guy about to ask out his first date.

Clint fights the urge to laugh at how nervous this star quarter back suddenly is, until he sees the way Bucky cocks his head to assess Steve.

Natasha breaks the awkwardness with introductions and as Bucky and Steve shake hands, Clint has a feeling that he isn't getting rid of Bucky anytime soon. But maybe, judging by the way they're looking at each other, Bucky isn't as much competition as he originally assumed.


	7. Chapter 7

It's been almost three weeks since the football game and Natasha still hasn't given back his sweater.

She keeps it and wears it in the morning's when it's cool or ties it around her waist during chemistry to keep the tassels away from the Bunsen burner.

Clint doesn't mind really, especially when she shows up to school one day, not only wearing the sweater, but also with coffee for him, one milk, two sugars, exactly how he takes it. He wonders how she knew. If she's secretly studying him the way he is her, picking up on these tiny cues that get locked away in some special part of his brain.

He likes to think so. He likes to think that pursed lip smile she gives him across the classroom means more than just the fact she's bored as hell.

He'd also like to ask her to go out with him, on a proper date: movies and dinner or whatever she wants. But he's worried it's still too soon. He's worried he'll scare her away. Natasha is like a lion. A predator. Fierce, with a haunting stare. But she's also self-protective. And he thinks, if he snaps a twig too loud or jumps out too soon, she'll spook and all the work he's done to get this close will have been for nothing.

So he waits, as patiently as an archer lining up a shot, for the perfect opportunity. Until he's sure he'll hit nothing but the bulls-eye.

In the meantime he's swamped with midterms and he settles for just being her partner. Some sort of cosmic fate must have aligned to have them paired together by the teacher because Clint's never been this lucky in his life. He gets to spend all sorts of extra time with her (apparently her Uncle lets her out after hours for school work), which means hours of research time spent at the library, heads bent close over books with tiny print and long sessions at the diner, drawing up the report.

It isn't all work though. They eat and talk and laugh. Natasha lies on her back at the foot of his bed and giggles when he trips over one of Tony's "inventions" (it looks grotesquely like a human hand) and goes sprawling into the closet. He'll have to explain the dent to Phil later, but plopping back down beside her and hearing that sound, feeling the way the bed shakes and vibrates through his chest, is enough to make him want to punch a hundred holes in the wall just for her.

"It's really not that funny, Romanoff," he says, leaning back on his elbows, biting his lip. He attempts to scowl at her and this only makes her laugh harder. She throws her hands over her face to stifle the sound. Clint can see her pink cheeks between her fingers and on a whim induced by the fluttering in his gut he leans over and squeezes the side of her stomach.

Natasha squeals and attempts to roll away but she's already at the edge of the bed, so Clint has the advantage and he attacks.

"Not so funny now, huh?" he laughs as Natasha squirms beneath him, her hands sliding up his forearms to stop the tickle assault. She laughs until she's breathless.

Clint is very aware of how her fingers are trapped with his.

He slows. She's breathing hard, eyes full of mirthful tears from laughing so hard. Her hair is splayed across his bed.

Somehow in the process of moving he ended up with his leg thrown over hers, half his body leaning against hers.

And though his first instinct upon realizing this should have been to scramble away, he doesn't. And she doesn't push him away either, just stares and blinks. He wonders if she's thinking about how nice it feels to be like this. To feel her warmth beneath him. The heat of her breath on his face. The rise and fall of air from her chest.

How nice it is to be this close with another person. Someone you want to be close with.

There's a knock on the open door and Clint jumps, rolling away from Natasha, his heart beating in his throat. "So I don't want to interrupt," Tony says, smirking, "but Phil wanted me to come eavesdrop and make sure there was no hanky panky happening on the bed sheets."

Tony bends down and retrieves the metal hand that Clint had tripped on. He points it at Natasha.

"Also your Russian friend is here and he won't speak to me in English. He has a sick sense of humor, that guy. So when you're finished doing," he gestures with the hand between them, "that, will you come down and talk some sense into him?"

Tony leaves the room and it's twelve seconds before they hear him call, "Don't worry Phil, I gave them some condoms!"

Clint face palms and the top of Natasha's cheeks flush a red almost as dark as her hair. "I should go help them with Bucky," she says, sitting up so quickly her head kind of spins and she plops back down on the edge of the bed, dizzy.

Clint's hand is already at her elbow. "You okay?" he asks, concern trapped in his eyes.

When she turns her head her face is close to his. Too close. So close he could reach out and-

"I'm good, Barton." She gives him half a smile and then pads across the room.

Clint sits on his bed for a long time, chest buzzing frantically, the taste of spearmint from Natasha's gum still ghosting across his face.

* * *

The day the chemistry project is finally due, Natasha swears she put the report in her bag, but when she dumps it out on the floor of her locker in front of Clint it's obvious it's not there.

"After all that work," he sighs.

She looks over her shoulder at him and glares in a way that turns his insides to ice.

"I'm kidding," he says, that boyish smiling spilling through. "It's fine."

He offers to drive her home at lunch to get it because he has the keys to the van and it'll take less time that way.

She argues with him. Says she'll walk, but he insists anyway.

Natasha bites her lip and he can see the struggle in her eyes. "Fine, but you wait in the van."

Clint concedes and an hour and a half later pulls into the parking lot of the eight story building. Natasha hops out, bag slung over her shoulder.

He gets out of the van behind her.

She rolls her eyes at him across the parking lot. "I told you to wait in the van, Barton."

"Sure, sure," he says, following her up to the door. She rolls her eyes again and her shoulders stiffen as she punches in the access code.

He follows her up the south stairwell because he's just that curious, and for half a second, when they stop outside a unit, Clint thinks she's going to make him wait in the hall.

She doesn't, just takes a broken kind of breath before turning the key and pushing inside.

She does a kind of surveillance before she moves too far inside, and with a glance back a Clint, moves down the hall.

He slips in the door and closes it without making a sound, his curiosity peaked and his senses on alert. Natasha moves like prey inside her own home. This fact doesn't escape him.

The apartment is sparsely furnished. It has plain egg-colored walls, nicked with scuffs from lots of wear and tear. Clint follows Natasha up a flight of stairs to a landing with three doors. One is wide open. It's the bathroom. He figures the other two are bedrooms and when she pushes inside one he finds out he's right.

He looks around the room, a desperate shiver prickling at his neck because what he sees seems wrong. He scans and scans again, curious eyes inspecting because it's what he does, what foster kids do when they're taken somewhere new. Inspect. Examine. Assess.

When you grow up in the world having nothing to call your own every loose button, every thread of string, becomes something to you. Every tangible object you get to call your own is valued above everything, treasured beyond words.

Kids that grow up in houses with a family and a room and stuff and stuff and stuff don't get it because the stuff they have is the kind that gets buried under beds and tossed in closets. It's the kind of stuff that parents throw in garage sales without asking and the kid never notices because, whatever, they'll just get more stuff.

Clint doesn't have stuff like that. He knows exactly what he owns, exactly what he has in this world. It's better now that he's with Phil. Phil buys him things, giveshim things, lets him pick things without expecting anything in return, except for him to keep his grades up and be a generally good person.

But still Clint knows how much stuff he has because in the back of his mind he knows exactly what he'll have to pack should he ever have to leave Phil's.

Natasha isn't a foster kid, but as his eyes dart from empty corner to empty corner in the shady, beige box of a room, he feels like she is.

There's a mattress in the center of the floor covered in a plain white sheet; not even a regular, run of the mill, squashy in the middle, springy everywhere else kind of mattress. It's a blow up and by the looks of the tape holding the edges together, in need of some air.

There's a laundry basket against the wall, holding a pile of carefully folded clothes.

The faded jeans she wore yesterday are placed on top with a reverent kind of care, like she's trying to preserve what little she has.

A small box of what Clint would call toiletries sit next to the basket—make-up, a hair brush, and other girly things thrown haphazardly together like a small treasure chest.

There's a mirror leaning against the window, gold filigreed roses bordering the speckled glass, holding together despite the cracked surface.

Clint flexes his hand as he traces the pattern of rivers cutting across his reflection. There's the tight cluster of diamond shards where a fist collided hard. Then the loose splinters of misdirected energy as the impact traveled across the glass.

The cracks cut Natasha up as she gathers papers from the top of the mattress, red hair framed in every shard.

It's a devastatingly beautiful picture until he shifts again, light catching the scuffs on the wall, the lint in the air vent, the thin blanket balled at the end of the bed, and then it's just devastating.

Natasha lives with her uncle. She lives with family.

But immediately Clint recognizes the signs.

Either Natasha doesn't want to be here, or her Uncle doesn't want her.

"You can sit if you want."

"What?" Clint looks up at her, realizing he's been staring at, well, it isn't much of anything.

She gestures to the window ledge, wide enough for him to sit. "Just be careful, I think the wood's rotting inside."

He makes a small head movement, acknowledging her as he crosses the room, gingerly putting his weight down.

The ledge groans under him, but holds, and he lets out a muted sigh, taking a second scan of the room. There's a pair of hand wraps beside the bed, kind of like the ones Steve uses to train.

"You box?" he asks suddenly.

Natasha looks over her shoulder to see what he's talking about. She gives a non-committal shrug. "Kick-box."

"How long?"

"A few months."

Clint nods. Since she moved in with Ivan. "Didn't strike me as the boxing sort?"

"I'm not really, but the ballet schools in this town are a joke."

He's even more surprised by this omission. "You dance?"

"I used to."

"I didn't know."

She glances at him quickly. "Why would you?"

He shrugs. Not because he's made it his mission or anything.

Natasha grabs a red file and stuffs it in her bag. "Got it all."

Clint nods, leading the way from the room. He stops by the other door on the landing, the one that's just ajar enough for him to see inside. There's a ratty couch in the middle of the room and a fire charred spoon upside down on the coffee table in front of it. Bags of white powder and balls of tinfoil cover the couch cushions. Wrapped bundles of green leaf sit stacked on the table beside wads of cash and numbers written on crumpled paper in a language he can't understand.

Clint knows what this is. He's been in just enough sketchy foster homes to know.

Natasha's beside him then, he eyes downcast as she grips the door handle and pulls it closed.

"Natasha," Clint says slowly, but she looks ashamed and he follows her out of the apartment without another word.

In the van she stares out the window, eyes lost in the side mirror, as Clint starts the ignition. His throat feels thick.

"Please don't say anything," she whispers then, still not looking at him.

To who, he wonders. Phil. Fury. Hill. Sam. Peggy. They'd all intervene. They'd all call child protective services.

"It's not so bad," she says. And he doesn't know who she's trying to convince.

He tried the same thing on himself a few times. It's really not that bad. It could be worse.

And that's the truth of it. But he was younger then. Stupider. It was before he met Phil. Before he knew it didn't have to be that way. Now he doesn't know if he can keep her secret, so he doesn't say anything, just drives them back to school, and they give their report.

Clint doesn't know how he's supposed to let her go back after what he's seen and it wrecks his brain for the rest of class. But Natasha saves him the trouble and slips away right before the bell. He loses her in the hall and when he meets the guys in the parking lot he tosses the keys on he front seat and stalks away.

He can't deal with them right now. Tony's probing sarcasm and Steve's perpetual need to make everyone feel better. They don't get it. Not quite.

Yeah, Tony's got abandonment issues because his richy rich parents didn't spend enough time with him before they drove into the back of a tractor trailer and Steve lost his mom early to a bad cancer gene, but they both fared okay. They both made it through the system in a series of good group homes before coming to Phil.

Clint . . . well, Clint's done everything from hitch hike with a travelling circus to sleeping under the freeway bridges, so he's seen a lot of really messed up shit. And he's met a lot of weird folks who do even weirder (illegal) things to get by. He knows how cruel the world can be.

But that was his choice to run with that life. After Barney left it was only him that he had to worry about.

It's different when it's someone else's life. When it's someone else with the dark bruises and the shadowed eyes.

He punches the brick wall of the gas station as he cuts through a back alley. His knuckles protest and bleed with each hit, but he doesn't stop until the bruises appear.

When he gets home that night, it's already dark. The diner is empty. Phil's waiting for him at the counter with a mug of hot chocolate.

"Do you want to talk about it?" he asks.

Clint sighs. "I can't."

Phil nods and gestures for him to sit. "Are you safe?" he asks.

Clint thinks about it for a moment. He is . Perfectly fucking safe. And it makes him angry all over again. He squeezes his fists and the scabbing over his knuckles crack. "Yes," he finally grits out.

Phil nods. "I'll get the first aid kit."

Clint sits in the front of the diner, feeling like the world is spinning out of control. And he doesn't know why, especially when he's surrounded by all these people, that he feels so alone, but he does, and the weight of the secret crushes his chest and it's hard to breathe.

He doesn't want to keep it.

He doesn't know if he can.

* * *

Natasha spends the evening in relative quiet. Ivan's off doing who knows what who knows where and for the life of her, she can't find it in herself to care.

Her heart races less when he's not around, that nervous energy that coils in the pit of her stomach almost non-existent. It's nice.

And Natasha finds herself hoping, not for the first time, that one of his buyers will just be a little off their rocker and strangle him for their score.

But an hour later when the front door unlocks and the hair on Natasha's neck stands up, she knows it was too good of a wish.

It's late though, already after ten, and she thinks that if she's quiet Ivan will assume she's already asleep and just leave her alone.

She hears his footsteps on the stairs. They pause on the landing, disappear into his room, and she lets out a strangled breath.

Then she hears him call her.

She gets up. It's always worse when she doesn't respond.

"What is this?" Ivan asks, his voice deceptively calm as she steps onto the landing.

"What?" she asks, hating how nervous she sounds. How garbled the word is.

He grabs her by the arm, hard, and yanks her forward. "The door's closed, Nataska. I didn't leave it like that! What were you doing?"

"Nothing!" His grip on her arm tightens. "I wasn't . . . I had someone over. I didn't want them to know what you do, so I shut it."

Her breath gets caught in her throat.

She wrenches away, and takes a step back, stumbling towards her room. She walks away from his angry red eyes and curled fists.

"Don't walk away from me, Nataska!" His hand wraps around her hair, yanking her neck back. She resists the urge to cry out, but the sharp pain behind her eyes betrays her.

His hands are buried deep in her hair and his voice rattles beside her ear. She can smell the alcohol on him. "Who was it?" he growls.

"No one," she says. No. Clint'll be in danger. She knew this would happen. She's not a good friend. She told this to him. She did.

"I don't want strangers in my house," he says, his breath hot and rank on her face. He releases her then, hard enough that she stumbles into the wall as the door to his room slams.

The mess of breath that escapes her then is that of relief, even though it doesn't sound like it.

When she's recovered her composure, she slips into the bathroom, locking the door behind her.

She takes the scissors from the drawer next and with tears in her eyes and a hiccup trapped in her chest, begins to cut. She cuts until her feet are covered in curls of hair.

Red and dead.

The beautiful lengths of her hair.


	8. Chapter 8

As morning dawns and the brick school building rises before him, Clint looks like he's been up for a week with nothing but coffee charging his system. His eyes feel raw and bruised, like he's taken a couple of knocks to the face, and all he wants to do is get his hands on his bow.

Well, that and see Natasha.

He's not exactly sure how to deal with this. Phil's great and he tried so hard last night, but for the moment Clint's keeping the promise. The one he didn't really make. The one that now means he has a series of sessions set up with Jemma that he's going to have to tip-toe through carefully because the woman has a way of making you talk. Maybe he'll take the Tony approach. Flirt. Deflect. Flirt some more. And wait for the hour mark to be up.

Clint shakes his head. That won't work. Flirting's not his style.

He's more of the brood silently type, but that makes Phil anxious and then Jemma starts taking a lot of notes that get stuffed in his too large file.

Clint groans. Last night had been a long night. After getting his hands bandaged and being crushed in one of the most intense hugs Phil had given him in a long time, he figured he had some apologies to make.

Tony had understood. He didn't prod or poke and when Clint had finally gone up to their shared room, sinking onto the edge of his bed, Tony wrapped a deft hand around his shoulder, squeezed, and then promptly went back to tinkering with the finger like projections that kept turning up in the toothbrush holder downstairs.

Tony could be surprisingly considerate when the occasion called for it. It was few and far between, of course. So much so that Clint thought he should mark it on a calendar, but it did happen occasionally, and for that he was grateful.

Steve on the other hand had looked like a wounded puppy when Clint passed his room on his way to the bathroom. It was those blue eyes. They got all glassy looking and then all Clint could think about was a little blue-eyed boy from Brooklyn who nobody wanted. Until now. They're supposed to be brothers, and even if Clint wasn't ready to share, he at least owed Steve something.

"Hey," he had said, taking a tentative step into the room. When Steve didn't move to toss him out, Clint crossed the room and collapsed into one of the over-sized beanbag chairs in the corner.

There was an open sketchbook on Steve's desk with charcoal drawings of a stringy haired boy with a dark, consuming stare. Clint smiled a bit. Steve had it real bad for Bucky.

"You okay?" Steve asked. He tapped his pencil against his thigh, twisting in his chair to face Clint.

He was so different like this, Clint had thought. So different from the all-American hero people thought he was. Clint wouldn't trade this guy for the football jock. This is the Steve he knew best. But with that in mind he also knew he couldn't lie to Steve, not completely.

"It's Natasha," Clint had mumbled, head falling back against the bean bag. The beans crinkled against each other and the sound tickled his ears.

"You two having problems?" Steve inquired.

"Not like that," Clint sighed. "I wish that were it."

"So she's in real trouble." Steve straightened in his seat. "Have you told Phil?"

"She asked me not to say anything."

"Clint—"

"I know. I know." He sighed again. "I don't know how to help her."

"Is she in danger?"

"I don't know yet. Not for sure." He stared at the ceiling, then back to Steve, the sketchbook floating in and out of sight. He sat up suddenly. "Can you do me a favor?"

Steve nodded. " Of course."

"Can you talk to Bucky about it? Ask him—" Clint trailed off. He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for. Just proof? More proof.

"I'll ask him about it," Steve assured. "But either way we need to tell someone. If you think your right."

Clint blew out a breath. He knew he was right. He trusted his gut. "Doesn't do me any good if she denies it though," he said. "Just makes the web more complicated."

Steve nodded. An accusation was only as good as the victims testimonial, especially when the child was older. At seventeen Natasha was old enough to tell the truth and have people believe it. If she denied it out of fear Clint could get her in a whole boat load of trouble with her Uncle.

He could make everything worse for her and that was the last thing he wanted.

"I'll talk to Bucky," Steve told him again. "We'll go from there."

And just like that, without really telling him everything, Steve had willingly chosen to bear this burden with Clint. To share some of the weight.

Clint pushed himself to his feet and ran a hand through his hair, cradling the back of his neck. "Your a good guy, Steve."

The tips of Steve's ears glowed bright. "So people keeping telling me," he said.

Clint shook his head gently. "I'm serious. Bucky's a real lucky guy." And with that Clint left him. He knew Steve would glow like a tomato for the next hour and he didn't see a point in embarrassing him further.

Besides, Clint still had to shower (somehow without destroying the bandage job Phil just did) and finish up a mountain of history.

It's the history work that he blames for his current condition this morning. Hill is a monster around midterms and the chapters seem to pile up endlessly.

Clint wipes away a yawn, scrubbing his hand over his face and flexing his tender fingers, as he stalks through the atrium of the school. There was maybe two hours of solid sleep in between a series of late night readings and some sort of nightmarish dreams about dark hallways and shattered mirrors. He knows it links back to Natasha. And though Steve's looking into it on his end, Clint feels the need to do more.

He wanders towards her locker, where he usually finds her about this time in the morning, but she doesn't show up and when the bell rings and the class files into homeroom, Clint gives up and takes a seat beside her empty one.

There's a sinking feeling in his gut for most of the morning and the guy's try to fill it with food at lunch. But between Natasha's absence and the fact he has a history paper to print off, he decides his time is better spent in the library where he can escape the sound of Thor reciting lines under his breath.

Steve gives him a look as he gets up to leave, but Clint waves it off and mouths homework .

He's not exactly sure how much homework he intends to get done. Curling up in the study cubicles at the back of the library and taking a power nap sounds pleasantly tempting as he pushes through the door and past the barcode scanners.

He passes the non-fiction section and weaves his way around the encyclopedias, making a trail for the very back corner. Its's like no-mans land back here and he loves it. Empty tables. Empty chairs. And if he's really sneaky he can probably manage to finish his sandwich.

When he rounds the corner of the wide white support column his heart beats so hard he thinks it might have cracked some ribs.

There, at one of the tables, sits Natasha. She's alone if the solitary bag is anything to go by.

Clint swallows a pang of emotion before walking over.

There's something different about her today he notes as he approaches. Something . . . off. But with the elation he feels in his chest it's hard to pin down. Hard to focus.

His eyes are crinkled as he approaches. As he sits. She barely moves to register his presence.

"Hi," he says gently, afraid she'll startle and scurry like a mouse.

She doesn't respond, just flicks her eyes up briefly to meet his before returning to her notepad. It's filled with tiny black print. It looks like she's been at it a while. Maybe this is where she was all morning. He shifts his bag off his shoulder so she knows he means to stay a while, and folds his arms against the table top.

"You look different today," he says, hoping she'll help him out.

She flinches like he's hurt her, her head jerking to the right.

It's her hair, he thinks suddenly. It's down and shorter. The long red curly pony tail is missing. Instead her hair dangles just short of her shoulders in looser waves, still very, very red, framing her face, her green eyes more vivid than ever.

Clint swallows.

He likes it.

Natasha doesn't.

"Why'd you cut your hair?" he asks, scooting his chair a little closer to the table. He leans towards her.

She shrugs.

His voice drops. "Why'd you cut your hair, Natasha?"

She flinches again and with her eyes closed, swallows what seems to be a memory. "Because he grabbed it," she whispers.

The words are cracked and almost rob Clint of his breath. His jaw tightens until his ears ache and he thinks he might bite right through his tongue."You r Uncle?" he says slowly, deliberately, because he knows the answer, he just needs to hear her say it. " Natasha, I— "

"I don't want to talk about it, okay?" She stands suddenly and grabs her bag from the table. "Tell the teacher I went home sick, will you?"

She leaves before he can respond, snatching up her bag, and stalking through the aisles, her notebook abandoned on the table. When Clint picks it up he sees the tiny black print is her Cyrillic Russian. He has no idea what it says, or who she was writing to, but he knows someone who will.

He pockets the notebook in his bag just as the bell rings. He joins the rush of students on his way to Chemistry, feeling like he's carrying around a secret almost as heavy as the one she's asked him to keep.

* * *

After school Clint drives Tony home. Bruce is in tow since they're working on their robotics project tonight. Thor has rehearsal but he might drop by the diner later and Steve's got a scrimmage for the next hour. Clint doesn't envy him running around in too tight pants today. It's uncannily cold outside, even for November.

Tony leans over and beeps the horn at Steve before hanging out the window. "Have fun freezing your balls off, Rogers!"

Steve looks around and if he were a lesser man (or Tony), he might have flipped them off. Instead he salutes and it makes Tony snicker.

Before they leave the parking lot Clint spies a dark haired boy in the stands, waiting for Steve.

"Bucky's coming to the diner tonight, right?" he asks Tony, who nods in response.

"Why?" Tony asks.

"I need him to look at something. Not a big deal."

Tony seems uncertain but let's it go. "I'm dropping by in about an hour to pick they two love birds up. It'll be so much easier when I get Steve's bike repaired. Then Steve can drive himself home. Plus I bet he'd appreciate the fact that Bucky's gotta sidle up real close on the bike before they can ride off into the sunset."

Bruce looks up in surprise, like it's the first he's heard of this. "Steve and Bucky? As in—"

Tony snorts. "You need to get out of the labs more, Banner. You're behind on the times."

Bruce drums his fingers against his lips as he contemplates this.

Clint grins into the rear-view, before casting a sidelong glance at Tony. "You know that only works till the snow flies. Phil will never let him out of the house on a motorcycle in the winter."

"He will when I'm done with it."

"Unless you plan to make it a transformer, I doubt it."

"Oh, that would be so cool. Ideas. Ideas." Tony roots around in his bag. "I need paper! Who's got a pen?"

He reaches into the side pocket of the door, pulling out one of Steve's drumsticks. After giving it an appraising nod he tosses it into the back seat. Bruce ducks like it's something he has to do a lot.

"Forget it, Tony," Clint says. "You spent all summer putting that bike together. Any longer and Steve'll be a senior before he gets to ride it."

"No, see, you're missing the big picture. Steve's birthday is in December. If I drag this out and give it to him then, I win the best present award."

"So you're giving him a bike he bought and paid for. That he bought all the parts for?"

"And who put all the parts together, hmm?"

Clint looks unimpressed.

"Well what are you giving him then, Legolas?"

Clint rolls his eyes at the nickname. "I don't know, but it'll be better than the bike."

"Nothing beats the bike. The bike is awesomeness to infinity."

"We'll see," Clint says. "Now shut up and answer your phone. That's probably Phil."

* * *

By the time Bucky arrives at the diner with Steve, Clint's been pouring over Google translate with no luck and he's decided that he never wants to learn another language, especially one as complicated as Russian. What the hell are these squiggles even supposed to mean?

He doesn't know how Natasha does it? How she keep more than one language straight in her brain.

Bucky drops down in the chair across from him when Clint gestures him over.

He's not surprised by this, so Clint gathers that Steve might have mentioned some things to him already.

"I need a favor," Clint says.

"I don't deal with Ivan, if that's what you're wondering," Bucky says, glancing across the kitchen to where Tony and Bruce are currently engaged in some sort of pirate duel with the carrots Phil's apparently supposed to be turning into dinner tonight.

Clint figures they'll just end up ordering pizza.

He shakes his head. "That's not what I was wondering. I need you to translate this." He pushes the notebook across the table. Steve sits down slowly beside Bucky, watching Clint for something that might be permission.

"This is Natasha's," Bucky says.

"She left it in the library."

"She'll be angry."

"Bucky," Clint pleads.

"Alright, but she can't know that I told you." His eyes scan the page and whatever he reads makes his eyes tighten. "It's a letter," he says finally.

"To who?" Clint wonders.

"People back home."

"Does she have family?"

"No, old neighbors maybe. People her mother knew."

"Why would she be writing to them?"

Bucky pushes the notebook back across the table. "Why do you think, Clint? She's looking for a way out."

"Why doesn't she just ask for help?"

"When you get to know Natasha you'll find out she doesn't ask for help very often. Even when she needs it most." He pulls his arm across his chest, the one amputated just below the elbow, looking uncomfortable.

Steve puts a hand on his shoulder. "Thanks, Buck."

Bucky's lips twitch, but the smile falters against the frown. "If you're asking me if Ivan's a good man than you already have your answer," he tells Clint. "He was involved with bad things back home and I doubt that changed when he came here."

"You think she'd be better off back in Russia?"

Bucky shrugs. "Natasha's never had a good run of things. There. Here. She's a smart girl though. Whatever it is, she knows what she's doing." Bucky swallows. "You should probably return that to her."

Clint nods and decides to do just that. He doesn't take the van but decides to walk. The cold'll do good to clear his head.

When he gets to the building he waits for one of the tenants coming home from work and slips in the front door after them so he doesn't have to bother buzzing the apartment. He figures it's best if he doesn't announce his presence.

The stairwell smells like dog pee as he hikes. Floor by floor.

* * *

Natasha can feel the wall against her shoulder blades, contorting around how hard she pushes against it.

Her face is turned, her breath hitched in her throat. The cold stink of vodka washes over her as Ivan leans closer.

"Nataska," he says and it's the same way he talks to the women he brings home. The one's in the short skirts with the fake eyelashes. The ones he picks up off the streets. She fights the scared beat of her heart as h e runs his hands down her arms and she shivers until her spine aches.

"Uncle Ivan—" she whispers, her hands curling into hard fists. "You've been drinking."

He chuckles into her ear like it's funny. His hand moves up, fingers drifting through her hair. He always gets like this when he's drunk. Touchy. Clingy. She's usually fine if she stays in her room. If she stays out of his sight-line. "Just call me Ivan, Nataska ."

"There's someone at the door," she says suddenly, eyes wide as the knocking persists. She sucks in a stilted breath and as Ivan stalks towards the door she glances up the stairs. She can make it if she goes now.

"Is Natasha home?" she hears and her head whips around.

It's Clint.

"What d'you want?" Ivan asks, hanging onto the door for support.

"I came to drop off Natasha's homework. Is she around?" he repeats. Ivan looks like he's about to slam the door in Clint's face, if only because he's having trouble focusing. The bottle of alcohol was almost empty when Natasha got home, so she's not surprised. If she had waited an hour before coming home he probably would have been passed out in his room already.

She slips up beside Ivan, in sight of the doorway. "Hi Clint," she says with a lot of false pep in her voice.

"Hey," he says, looking relieved. He glances at Ivan before saying. "You feeling better?"

"Yeah."

She smiles the kind of smile that looks painfully forced as he passes her the notebook.

"Okay, well . . ." he looks from her to her Uncle and makes to take a step back but the way Natasha's eyes widen and lock on his makes him pause. He starts up again. "A group of us were going to meet at the library to study. You wanna come?"

"Sure, yeah, " she says, snatching her bag off the floor. She has her shoes on and a coat before Ivan manages to blink at the exchange.

When he pieces things together, Ivan reaches for her shoulder, squeezing. "Don't be out too late with your friends," he says.

She nods, adjusts her bag and brushes past him.

"I mean it , Natask a," he calls down the hall as her and Clint disappear into the stairwell. Natasha takes it at a run and Clint keeps pace just behind her. He doesn't miss the gasping breath of air she takes as they reach the exit.

They walk in silence in the direction of the library. It's not exactly the way to the diner, but Clint figures a detour isn't such a big deal.

"You okay?" he asks when they reach the end of the street.

"Yes," she says too quickly.

"Are you lying?"

She doesn't say anything, just looks over her shoulder where Ivan stands on the balcony, watching them.

She tucks her arms across her chest and for a while the only sound is their footsteps, out of sync with each other.

"Clint?" she asks then.

"Yeah?"

"Can I stay at your place tonight?"

He looks over at her. She doesn't look at him, just bites her lip.

"Yeah," he sighs, "okay. I'll talk to Phil."

When they reach the end of the next block they make a right and Natasha's pace slows. When the diner comes into view there's something like a smile on her face and Clint thinks, not for the first time either, that he'll never see anything that makes him as happy as it does when he sees her smile.

* * *

Once inside, Clint leaves Natasha in the living room with Steve and Bucky, figuring it's safer than trusting Tony with her, while he goes in search of Phil.

He finds him in his office and closes the door behind him when he enters.

Phil stops writing immediately and puts his pen down. He's good like that.

Clint takes a breath and drops into the chair across from him, rubbing his hands over his knees.

"Am I about to find out what the other night was all about?" Phil asks, breaking the ice for him. He's good like that, too.

"I think Natasha's in trouble," Clint says and the relief that floods him with the rush of those words is immediate.

"Is there something going on at home?" Phil asks.

Clint shakes his head. "I don't know and I'm not gunna say there is because I know what you have to do if someone suspects something like that of a student. It was just the way she looked at me when I went to drop of f her book."

"Which was?"

"She was scared, Phil. The same kind of strangled doe-eyes kids get when they 're afraid to be alone in a room with the adults that are supposed to protect them. I don't think she should be at home right now."

Phil nods slowly, his foot resting on his knee, his mouth twitching. "You're a good judge of character, Clint. Go with your gut on this one. You think she should stay here tonight, she does. But there's no funny business. She doesn't stay in your room. She sleeps on the couch. If you stay down here it's on the opposite couch, got it?"

Clint shifts in his seat. "Phil, it's not like that."

Phil's smile is kind, not condescending. "But you wouldn't be opposed to it."

"She's my friend," Clint insists. "She needs a friend."

"That may be. But she's a pretty friend."

"I know. I have eyes. That doesn't mean I want to jump in her pants."

Phil nods. "You're a good kid, Clint. I trust you to make the right choices. But I know teenagers. I know it's hard to believe, and don't bother with the receding hairline jokes, but I was a teenager once, too. I know what it's like. Let's not put yourself in a position to make those hard decisions yet, okay?"

"Touché," Clint says. He's actually tired of making decisions. At least the ones that make him want to throw-up his insides. He'd rather just let the adults deal for a while.

"She's a nice girl," Phil muses, lost in some errant thought.

Clint nods. "But she's in trouble."

"I'll look into it. Unofficially . You better go find her a change of clothes. I think Peggy's got some things in the staff room from when she had to spend the night those few holiday weekends. I'm sure she wouldn't mind."

Clint smiles. "Phil?"

"Yeah?"

"You know I love you, right?"

Phil looks taken aback. It's only a second though before his features school and the same calm, reassuring smile appears. "I know, kid, now go order pizza. We both know I'm not gunna make dinner."

Clint shrugs. "Bruce and Tony destroyed your carrots anyway, unless you were planning on soup. Apparently Bucky's new robo-prosthetic has the crushing power of a small hippo."

Phil smirks. "Guess what Tony's taking for lunch tomorrow?"

Clint laughs, standing and heading for the door.

"Clint," Phil calls, looking over the top of his laptop.

"Yeah?"

"Love you, too."

"Well I figured," Clint teases. "Seeing as you put up with me and all."

Phil tosses a crumpled piece of paper at him but Clint ducks and slips out the door before it makes contact. He steps lighter as he joins the others in the living room.

* * *

They spend the night with pizza and Netflix. Tony calls Thor, who was with Jane after rehearsal, who needs Darcy when there's this much testosterone involved, and for some reason Bucky's still at the kitchen table (where he's been for for weeks between Tony's project and Steve's infatuation). Clint's honestly not sure if he ever really leaves. In the end Phil gives up and lets them have run of the house provided there's no alcohol involved and leaves them be to help Sam close up the diner.

Clint feels the edge in Natasha as he settles between her and Steve, his side pressed so close she might as well be sitting on his lap, and though she doesn't actually sit on his lap, by the time the second Lord of the Rings film has ended she's got her head tucked against his shoulder, her eyelids fluttering with sleep.

He relishes the warmth of her breath against his arm and for a few quiet moments imagines it was like this all the time.

Bucky and Steve mutter low from the kitchen, an expanse of three feet between them, but their posture is very much relaxed. Thor has left with Jane and Darcy in tow. Bruce is camping in Clint's bed for the night since he's taking the other couch and Tony is attempting to steal the micro-board out of the remote control.

He leaves with the device under his arms and Clint has to nudge Natasha off his shoulder so he can scoot across the floor and manually turn the TV off.

Steve gives him a kind of half salute in the low glow from the kitchen and Bucky nods ever so slightly. It's a nod that says take care of her and when Clint looks back at the couch Natasha's sprawled out on her side, tangles of red hair clouding her face.

He stands and pulls the blanket from the back of the couch, draping it over her shoulders, then plops down on the other couch, his eyes closing before he thinks too much about the fact that Natasha Romanoff is sleeping in his house.


	9. Chapter 9

It's way too early; the sun's barely up when Clint's prodded awake by a warm hand to his chest.

He startles, mainly because wake up calls from Phil involve the man ripping Clint's sheets off his bed and dragging them halfway down the hall. It's only when his toes start to curl from the cold that Clint usually crawls out of bed. Other days the wake up calls come at odd hours of the morning, ones he'd much rather be sleeping through, and it usually involves sparks and a series of garbled swears from Tony. Clint's learned to keep a bottle of water by his bedside. He's also stowed a fire extinguisher in the closet, but that's for the real emergencies (Tony's still responsible for those ones).

But this morning he's out of his element because the touch is soft, almost a caress, and it takes him to a yellow tinted memory of small-town pretty blue eyes and a freckled smile. It reminds him of his mother and the thoughts are dragged from somewhere so deep in his subconscious that it actually scares him.

His eyes snap open and soon the fear becomes more of a surprise.

"N'tasha?" he mumbles, blinking like he's still sleeping, because he must be. Why the hell would Natasha freaking Romanoff be in his room, looking like some warm kind of inviting daydream?

But then he blinks again and the living room shapes into view, warmed by the earliest of morning light. He sits up a little, propping on one elbow. He's still in his sweats; she's in one of his borrowed shirts and a pair of Peggy's emergency 'stay over' pajama pants. The couch on the other wall is rumpled, the blanket kicked to one end. Last night rushes back in a series of fuzzy moments that make him smile.

He looks back at Natasha, pleased by how close they are, at how she smells like vanilla and something distinctly fall. He has the overwhelming urge to just pull her towards him, tucking her body along his side. Must be the sleep fog still affecting his brain. He curls his fists, nails biting into his skin, to stop himself.

"I should get home," she whispers and the words dance across his face, a breeze, light, like the first wisps of morning that dance across the dew-tipped grass when the leaves change. "Thanks for letting me stay."

"Ivan?" Clint manages to mumble, tipping his head to watch the way her hair slips from the band at the top of her head.

A lock falls between them and Natasha tucks the red curl away as she says, "Should be at work. I'll see you at school, okay?"

"M'kay." His eyes flutter and for a moment she's real close. She presses her lips to his cheek and then she's gone.

When Clint wakes up for real he doesn't know if he was dreaming or not. All he knows is that Natasha's gone and judging by the boxes on the coffee table, they're all eating cold pizza for lunch. It isn't until he heads into the bathroom upstairs to brush his teeth that he finds the pink lip gloss stuck to his cheek.

As he scrubs it away he grins like an absolute fool.

The bathroom door swings open and Tony stumbles in, running a hand over his face is quick succession. "Why are you so smiley?" he asks as he pads across the floor, careful to only step on the carpet laid between squares of ceramic tile. He grabs his own toothbrush and squeezes a minty glob onto it.

Clint shrugs, stuffing his toothbrush into his mouth by way of avoidance.

Bruce joins them a moment later and snatches his toothbrush out of the holder. He's here enough that he has one stashed. It's dark green, only shades lighter than Tony's, but then again Tony's got one of those fancy electric spinning ones.

Even his teeth are high maintenance.

Steve is the last to wake, though he looks likes a cover model for Abercrombie pajamas as he reaches blindly for the toothpaste. The plain white tee sculpts and cuts and Clint can understand why the girls hang around outside the boy's locker room after football games.

Okay, he understands why Bucky's sort of infatuated with the guy.

Tony grumbles his thoughts on the matter, like he's personally offended by the perfect specimen Steve is, and Steve looks over and blinks owlishly at him.

The four of them crowd the sink and for a few minutes it's fine. Clint finishes, runs a handful of gel through his hair, and ducks around Bruce for a comb. Then Tony and Steve both bend to spit at the same moment and knock heads. Well, Tony knocks his head off of Steve's. Steve is sort of like a rock and barely registers.

"We really have to stop having these communal tooth brushing sessions," Clint says.

"What's wrong, Barton? Not enough elbow room?" Tony says, nudging Steve out of the way so he can spit properly. He rubs his head with his free hand. "At least it's not as bad as when Thor stays over and flushes the toilet while someone's in the shower."

Steve blushes the colour of Natasha's hair. "It was really hot, okay."

"I don't doubt it, but next time you stumble blindly out of the shower and pummel through the door grab a towel on your way. That was way too much Cap bum for me."

Steve flicks his toothbrush at Tony, who knocks it away and ducks out of the bathroom as Steve chases after him.

Clint smirks in the mirror, noting Bruce's vacant look. "You're not even awake yet, are you?"

"I find it best to ignore everything that comes out of Tony's mouth between the hours of midnight and seven AM. It's usually relatively disturbing."

Clint nods in agreement. "At least he hasn't tried to light you on fire yet."

* * *

Clint finds Natasha as soon as they pull into the parking lot that morning. She's waiting by the greenhouse for him, the new norm for them, and he can't avoid the sigh of relief that leaves his chest knowing she's gone home and come back no worse for the wear, at least from what he can tell.

There's also a pleasant little spark that rocks at the back of his mind, reminding him of this morning and her warm breath against his cheek.

But they don't talk about it at school that day. It's almost like it never happened. And in some ways he figures it's easier. This pretending things are normal.

Only his gut gets all sort of twisted inside when the bell finally rings at the end of the day and the pretend stops. Because he doesn't know if Natasha's safe tonight. She gives him a timid sort of smile, one that tells him she's saying I can't hide from it forever or maybe you can't hide me forever. And the truth of it ruins Clint's day. He heads to the gym with Steve after class to pound the thoughts from his head for a while.

It works. Until that night when he wakes up covered in sweat with the image of a meaty fist racing towards his head and the smell of his father's boozy breath on his tongue. Again these memories surface from somewhere deep. Somewhere his childhood self had buried them.

These are things that should have stayed buried. He rolls over to find Tony staring at him. He's got his head lamp on and a long metal forearm in his lap: the fingers curl as he tinkers. He's never looked more like a mad scientist. "I was gunna wake you up," he says.

Clint nods, staring at the ceiling long enough for the glassy look in his eyes to pass. "Next time chuck something at my head, huh?"

"Noted. You wanna talk about it?"

"Nope." Clint knows what this means; he's sat through enough therapy sessions to have a goddamn degree in it. Natasha's a trigger for him. Not her exactly, but her situation. He can't talk about it with Phil or even Jemma, because he knows what the doc's advice will be. She'll tell him to cut ties with Natasha until he gets his own emotions under control; but that won't help. Not now anyway. Because what he feels for her is more than just platonic. It's why the dreams have started. It's why he catches flashes of his mother's smile when she grins at him and why images of Ivan spark thoughts of his father.

If he cuts her out of his life now they'll get worse because he'll always wonder.

Clint can't do that. He just has to figure out how to help her.

There was no one around to save him back then.

But this is different, he tells himself, because Natasha has people that care about her. Whether she sees it or not is a different story. And whether she wants to be saved is the even bigger question.

Clint lets out a breath that's more defeat than anything.

Tony glances at the clock over his shoulder. It's almost six. "Okay, so we don't have to talk. You wanna go shoot something?" he asks. "I need to check the dexterity of Bucky's new fingers."

Clint smiles and rolls out of bed to find his sneakers. "We did just paint that new target on the side of the shed."

* * *

The next day unfolds much like the previous and because Clint's holed up in the school gym with Steve, Tony finds himself alone in the diner, standing on the counter, fitting new display boards to the wall before the dinner rush can begin.

When the bell over the door jingles and a familiar red-head rolls up to the counter, hiking her bag up her shoulder, Tony feels like he should be playing hostess, but instead he stares at Natasha and grins, screwdriver caught between his teeth.

"Stop that," she says, plopping down on the nearest bar stool. "You look maniacal."

Tony shrugs and fits the last screw into the frame. The black chalk boards are striking (much better than the white boards they had before) just like Phil wanted. Now all Tony has to do is fill them with fancy specials and the deal of the day. This was going to be the hard part. Maybe he'd get Steve to chuck up a couple of drawings. Nothing got the crowds hyped like a well drawn slice of cheese.

"Hand me that box, will you?" he says to Natasha, pointing to a box of coloured chalk.

"What are you doing?" she asks, pushing the box across the counter.

Tony sighs. "Making Phil happy, apparently. I keep telling him I could get this all set up on automation boards. A couple of strokes on a keyboard and we'd be all set. Then I wouldn't have to erase this shit every time we run out of pastrami. But no, he wanted the chalk boards. Wanted to keep it handwritten. Makes it more homey. Do you feel more homey when Steve draws a slice of cheese up here?"

Natasha shrugs. "Maybe Phil just thinks the customers like admiring the view."

"You checking out my ass, Romanoff?"

She rolls her eyes. "I was talking about your neat, little girly script, but think what you want."

Tony smirks. "I'm sure you'd rather it was Barton up here anywhere." He hears the intake of breath as she stalls and it make his lips curl that much more.

Natasha props her chin on her hand, scowling at him. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"You telling me you really came here today, before dinner even starts, to wait for a sandwich?"

She schools her face into something that might be indifference. "I like the pastrami," she defends.

Tony bites the inside of his cheek. The denial is so thick she's practically screaming her feelings for the guy. "Mmm hmm," he says. "That's not all I bet. Clint won't come in until after five, just so you know. He and Steve are at the weight room. But if you're looking for a view, that's the one you want. Shirtless and sinewy and sweaty."

Natasha's eyebrow curves gently. "Sounds like it's something you've watched before?"

He gestures to himself with a piece of chalk. "Red, you don't get pecks like these from cranking bolts. I'm not just good in the garage if you get my drift."

Natasha arranges the basket of straws on the counter top. "Too much information, thanks."

Tony hops down, having completed today's specials. "I was talking about lifting weights. Get your mind out of the gutter."

"Yours went there first."

"Well to be fair, it's kind of always there," Tony mutters as he admires his handiwork. He's rather good at the whole lettering thing. Must be the steady hand.

The door jingles again and this time both Clint and Steve walk in carrying gym bags. Tony waves them over. Natasha goes quiet and draws her fingers over the counter top so Tony takes action. "Steve, I need a consult on your bike. Just got the engine in."

"Sure, I'll just grab something to eat first."

Tony huffs dramatically. "Steve, you want to see your bike or not?"

"Yeah, just give me a—"

"Right now, Spangles, or so help me—"

Steve flushes. "That was one time, Tony, okay?"

"The patriotic boxers are seared into my mind forever. Deal with it."

Clint ignores them in favor of studying Natasha. He's pleasantly surprised by her impromptu visit.

She's got her hair up, all the red tangles pulled to a point at the top of her head, a short ponytail that shows off the expanse of her neck, delicately thin, and deceivingly pale . . . Clint can't stop looking at it. He can't stop thinking about what it would be like to run two fingers over the top of her spine, to trail them over her skin, so soft, to let them whisper through the throw away hairs that fall from the masses.

"You alright?" Tony asks as he passes him, forcibly dragging Steve by the arm. "You've got that look again."

"What look?" Clint says, blinking away the illusion.

"The one where you look like you just took a punch to the gut."

Clint knocks him in the shoulder before walking up to Natasha. She spins on the bar stool.

"Hey," he says.

"Hi."

They stare for a moment that stretches too long and Clint can feel the weight of all the unsaid things they trip over at school rising to the surface. Natasha looks utterly terrified as she bites her lip and turns away. Clint lets the moment go, offering her a way out. "Well, I'm gunna go take a shower because I probably smell rank."

She turns back to look at him. "You do sort of smell like the inside of a laundry hamper."

Clint laughs. Banter. He could do banter. His smile fades though, because banter only masks what really needs to be said. "Do you think you'll still be here when I'm done? I was kinda hoping we could talk."

Natasha takes a breath as she debates it. It takes less time than Clint expects, but then again, she was the one waiting for him. Maybe this is what she wanted all along. "Will there be pie?" she asks finally.

Clint smirks. "If Bucky hasn't eaten it all. He's taking this 'all the pie you can eat thing' very seriously." He walks around the counter to check their stash. "Cherry okay?"

Natasha nods. "Then yes, I will be sitting here when you return."

Clint wants to reach out and squeeze her hand, but instead he just tightens the strap of his gym bag and pushes through the back door, keen on having the quickest shower in the history of the world. He succeeds and then promptly spends far too much time picking out a clean shirt to wear.

He settles on a faded purple. It's the same shirt he wore the first day of school. The first time they met. He shrugs into a pair of worn jeans and runs his fingers through his hair, spiked from the dampness.

When he slips back through the diner it's already started to fill. He doesn't work tonight so he slips around Phil and swipes a plate of pie from the display case.

"Hey," he says as he finds her at the other end of the counter.

"Hi," she murmurs with a small smile.

He cuts right to the chase. "So, you're here now, which means your Uncle—"

"Isn't a problem right now."

"Right now," Clint responds with a sigh that makes Natasha's thin smile tighten even more. For a second she looks like she's about to bolt, like she's lost the nerve to sit against the counter with him in this tiny, overcrowded diner.

Maybe she has.

Maybe he wants to continue ignoring everything, keep playing this game of pretend that they seem to be so good at. But he can't because he cares too much.

Yeah, that happened sometime early this morning while he was shooting bullseyes with Tony. He cares. Like the same way he'd care if it was Tony or Steve in trouble.

He yanks on her sleeve and gestures to the booth in the back corner of the room. It's empty, sitting under the lamp with the fading bulb. It's not exactly private, but there's an intimacy about it that beats sitting at the counter. With a breath Natasha follows him there.

She sits first and he climbs in beside her. Not across.

For a minute all they can do is stare at each other. He pushes the plate of pie across the table and she picks up a fork, staring at it like she's never used one before. One of the girls waitressing tonight drops a pair of glasses at their table and pours some water.

Natasha takes of bite of pie. She chews and swallows while Clint downs half his glass. Then she speaks. "I just wanted to thank you for yesterday and last night. For putting up with me."

Clint moves to interrupt her, to tell her otherwise but she plows on.

"I told you from the beginning I wouldn't make a very good friend. I'm . . . my life is a mess, Clint." She sighs. "But I'm going to try harder. So I just want to say sorry for yelling at you in the library the other day. You didn't deserve that. Not when you're the only one who knows." She swallows hard and adds, in a whisper, "Who cares."

"But I don't have to be," Clint says quickly. "I'm not. The guys care. Coulson cares. He doesn't just let anyone stay over."

Natasha indulges him for a moment. "The man who takes in strays offering up his couch? Yes, that must be unheard of."

Clint opens his mouth a few times before he gets the words out. Natasha, I know you probably don't want to talk about it—"

"I don't. Not really. So can we not? Not right now, at least."

Clint's grip on his water glass tightens; his jaw tenses. "Are you safe?"

"Yes," and right now she doesn't know if it's a lie or not, but she puts in as much feeling as she can to convince him. She's good at that. Twisting the truth. Making it real when it's not. Believable. "Ivan was drunk the other day. He doesn't drink often. Only when," she hesitates, ". . . a job goes poorly."

Clint looks at her. It feels like his gaze sinks into her skin. "And how often does that happen?"

More than she's like to admit. She licks her lips. "It is not a good business to be in," is all she says and Clint's hands curl a little tighter.

"Alright," he grits out and Natasha's relieved when he lets it drop.

She stares at her pie and he stares at his almost empty glass. "So, I don't want to make this a thing or whatever, but I'm pretty sure you kissed me goodbye this morning," he says.

Natasha bites the edge of her lip and nods. "It was a kiss of gratitude."

"A goodbye thank-you?"

"Yes."

Clint nods slowly. "Okay."

"Okay?" she says like a question.

Clint nods again. "Why?"

She flicks her head to the side, hiding some emotion that wrinkles her brow. "Nothing."

They do this a lot, he thinks. This one word conversation thing. But sometimes those words say a lot more than one thing. And sometimes they don't.

Natasha leans back in the booth and stares at him. She isn't used to this. This no expectations in return thing. Nothing's free where she comes from.

"What?" Clint says.

She runs her hand along his then, tracing the calluses on his thumb. The touch sends a shiver through him. "I don't understand you, Barton."

"What don't you understand?"

For a moment she doesn't say anything. And then, "You're nice." She smiles sadly. "You're too nice. You don't want to be friends with me."

"You can keep saying that," he says, "but it won't change anything." He flips his hand over so hers is nestled against his palm. "Stubborn, remember?"

Natasha just watches him, and as he watches her in return, she inches closer, her fingertips closing over his. She leans a little more, her other hand braced against his thigh. And then her breath is spilling against his lips. "I'm no good for you, Clint," she whispers and it smells like cherry.

He feels some sort of fierceness grow at the back of his throat and he knows there's a growl there that wants to explode, rising up from deep in his chest. "I don't care," he tells her, and then she closes the distance.

Her lips on his are firm and he knows she means this kiss. It's in the way her mouth falls open and her teeth graze his bottom lip. It's the pressure on his thigh as she leans into him, head tilting and body shifting until they fit against each other. She gives a little, encouraging moan in the back of her throat as Clint reaches up to cup her face, holding her lips to his. She tastes like cherry and he wants to drown in the feeling. The feeling of her pressed against him, her fingers lacing over his, her lips parting to inhale a stuttered breath before she pulls away, lip caught between her teeth, cheeks almost as red as her hair.

It's a chaste kiss by most standards, Clint thinks. Definitely more than this morning, but nothing he'd be embarrassed by in public. Still, his heart races because of it and his voice is thick when he gets it out. "Is that another thank-you?" he wonders.

"No," she whispers, green eyes bright as they search his. "That's because I wanted to." And it is. Just for a second she lets herself have what she wants. Have what she shouldn't because she knows she's no good for Clint. She'll only end up hurting him. But it also feels nice. Safe. And she wishes things were different.

She takes her bag then and slides it over her shoulder, maneuvering around him. "Thanks for the pie."

She leaves him breathless in the booth.

Clint slumps, reeling and confused. His lips still tingle, still taste faintly like cherry. What the heck just happened?

He sits for a minute, debating. This is going to be one of those defining moments. He'll stew and she'll pretend like it never happened and they won't talk about it because he's not great with feelings, but Natasha's terrible at them. So they'll tip toe around this until one of them goes crazy or something bad happens and then he'll wonder why he didn't say something sooner. Why he was such a coward.

What's the worst that could happen?

Eh, probably better not to dwell, he thinks. Clint's seen a lot of worse in his life.

He scrambles out of the booth and races behind the counter for his sweater. Then he takes off out the door. He knows Phil was watching him. Staring with that stoic, I know exactly what's going on look. He knows he'll probably have to talk to him later, but right now all he cares about it catching Natasha.

He reaches her in the alley between the variety store and the Kal-Tire auto joint.

She slows at the sound of his footsteps.

"What the hell was that?" he calls.

Natasha turns, startled. Her eyes widen. He can seen the red that rims them and his heart tweaks a little as she says, "What?"

Still, he plows on because they've been tip-toeing around this for weeks now, maybe even a month. And he needs to know if this thing between them, if it can be anymore. "You just kiss me . . . like that," he says. "Like it's real. And then take off?"

"Clint—"

"No, don't Clint me. Don't say it like that. Like it was a mistake. Why did you kiss me?"

"Clint—"

He's in front of her now. So, so close. His chest heaves. His breath falls in gasps. "No. Why?"

She swallows, leaning away to look up at him. Her hair curls around her shoulders. "Because I wanted to."

"Well, good," he says, hands on his hips. He nods like it settles everything. It should, he thinks. It should be that easy. "I wanted to kiss you too."

She turns away, holding the strap on her bag with both hands. "We can't . . . shouldn't have."

"Natasha, look at me."

She doesn't stop walking.

He takes the three strides to reach her and catches her arm, spinning her around. "Dammit, Natasha. Stop. Why are you doing this?"

She shrugs out of his grip and her voice is harder this time. Not angry, just defensive. "Clint, you've seen what my life is. Ivan's dangerous. He doesn't take kindly to strangers. You won't ever be welcome there."

"I don't care about Ivan. I care about you."

Her breath stutters then and she looks pained as she looks away. "I shouldn't have kissed you. I'm sorry."

"Well, too bad. You did. And you meant it. And I mean this." He grabs her face, on either side, hands threading into her hair. She stumbles at the suddenness of his movements, knocking against the brick wall, but Clint's hand comes behind her to brace her and his head tips to reach hers.

This kiss is different than the one in the diner. It's private and he lets out a groan tangled in the back of his throat as she opens her mouth to prod his tongue with hers. His fingers stroke up beside her ear and her arms slide around his neck, holding him closer.

When he's sure she's got hold of him, he lets his hands wander. They settle on her hips and for a moment he revels in the heat of her mouth on his. Her eyes are closed and her lashes cast shadows across her cheek bones. Clint tips his head and sucks on her lower lip. Natasha makes a sound that makes him squeeze her hips.

Suddenly his hands disappear under the edge of her black jacket, tangling beneath the sweater she wears until they find skin, flattening along her back. For a moment she shivers and she doesn't know if it's from the cold air that now reaches her skin or because of the way Clint drags his thumb along her lower spine.

She doesn't care. Everything feels nice. The heat. The pressure of his body against hers. Rough hands against her skin. He squeezes her again, gently around the waist, and her breath stutters. There's something so possessive about the action, but she's not frightened by it. Instead it makes her heart thud in her chest.

When he finally pulls away, he leaves his hands on her hips, and she drags her palms down his chest.

Her head spins and she's pleasantly dizzy. But also confused. She likes the way he feels as she leans into him. Warm. Strong. But . . . there's always a but.

"Clint, I don't know what to do," she confesses.

"What do you want?" he asks. He whispers because they're still so close.

"I . . ."

"Don't think about it. Just answer. What do you want, right now?"

"You. To be with you. To . . ." Her cheeks flush, turning from pink to scarlet and he knows it's from more than just the cold.

"Does it involve more kissing?" he asks.

She plays with the front of his sweatshirt and smiles coyly. "Perhaps." Then her brows furrow. "Clint, I don't know how this is supposed to work."

"We don't have to figure it out right now this second."

She lets out a heavy breath.

"Can I walk you home?" he asks, pulling her away from the wall. He keeps his hands on her waist and she's grateful because her legs feel sort of like jelly.

"I'd like that," she says and his smile is radiant in return. He tucks their hands together and she leans into him as they walk. Maybe this wouldn't be so bad, she thinks. Maybe she could have Clint after all. And if she was careful, maybe she'd get to keep him.


	10. Chapter 10

Clint and Natasha have officially been a something for almost two weeks when it finally dawns on him that he actually has a girlfriend. He's not really the type to keep track of those kinds of things anyway (monthiversary?), but with Natasha it's different. Each day that goes by reminds him that she's one step closer to maybe believing that this tentative thing they have going is more than just them playing pretend. That she is allowed to be happy, regardless of what her uncle thinks. It's one more day in the right direction. Although two weeks seems like peanuts in the grand scheme of things, the relationship feels like something they've been tiptoeing around for a while now, and now that they've finally worked up the nerve to give it a try, Clint can't help but feel like it's a little bit perfect. It's perfect in the way her hand threads against his as they walk to class, and in the way she grins at him over homework at the kitchen table while Tony and Steve bicker over who's doing the dishes.

He's afraid to admit how easily she fits—how easily they fit—especially so soon; but the sense of peace in his chest is hard to ignore. The fact that they were friends first—that he would give up everything if she only wanted friendship—means that there's no awkwardness in these slow first steps. The moments are still threaded with gentle smiles and whispered giggles, but there's no uncertainty in the way his fingers skim her cheeks as they kiss outside the diner, or in the way her fingers play with his hair as they watch movies in the dark.

It's a seamless transition, this one that they're in, and Clint's never been so happy in his life. So in the back of his head it forms: this nagging black bug that picks away at his thoughts, reminding him that he's just some punk runaway from Iowa, and every good thing in his life is still perched on a balance beam that he hasn't figured out how to control yet.

As good as he feels, he also feels like he's dangerously close to tipping off.

So when Clint wakes one morning to find the house dangerously quiet as he makes his way down to the kitchen, there's a moment when he has a sneaking suspicion that something isn't quite right. Steve and Tony are usually arguing by this point. Or Tony and Phil. Pretty much any combination that allows Tony to hear his own voice. The utter silence is the first thing to peak his attention.

The next is the fact that it smells far too good to be a normal, average Thursday, and his mouth is watering by the time he reaches the bottom of the stairs.

He steps lightly through the doorway of the kitchen, tiptoeing almost. It gets him across the room, through the odd tension that's sifting through the smells. It feels like something's up. Tony hovers in the corner, watching the scene unfold, Clint's emotions written starkly across his face.

Tony was never good at hiding things. He's too abrupt for that.

Steve on the other hand sits before a literal feast at the kitchen table, looking like it's Christmas as he piles his plate with waffles. Home-made, with raspberry jam and syrup as toppers. Clint inhales deeply, dropping into his chair, as Phil says good morning.

"What's going on?" Tony finally asks, eyes narrowed and shifty.

Phil stops loading plates onto the table and plays with his tie, almost like he's nervous. But Phil Coulson doesn't get nervous. He's the epitome of calm. Always. It makes Clint shift in his chair.

"Um, well. I was trying to come up with a better way to say this . . . uh, something a little more exciting. But your adoption paperwork came through last night; everything's a go, if it's something you all still want."

"Are you serious?" Tony asks, skirting around the table.

Steve starts choking on his orange juice. Clint thumps him on the back once, turning to face Phil who pulls Tony into a hug.

Steve stands next offering one long arm to wrap around Phil's shoulder. "Where do I sign?"

Phil laughs. "We'll have to make an appointment with the lawyer, when you've all made your decision." He looks at Clint briefly. "When you're ready."

"Make the appointment," Tony says, rubbing his hands together.

"Yeah?" Phil asks.

He nods. "Heck yeah."

Tony drops into his chair, picking up a waffle on his fork and taking a bite. His chew is slow and contemplative, but Clint doesn't miss the smile the pulls his cheeks.

Phil tucks in between Steve and Tony, clearing his throat. "Okay, well, thank Sam for breakfast on your way out this morning because we all know this wasn't me. But on another note, I need numbers for this weekend so I know how big of a turkey to get. I've extended the Thanksgiving invitation to Peggy already. She's coming with a friend. Sam's insisted on cooking—"

"Thank God!" Tony mutters. Steve makes some kind of halleluiah sign to the ceiling, mouth chocked full.

"—so he'll be here. I've also asked Fury and Maria to come by if they have nowhere else to be."

Tony groans. "Phil, you know the point of a holiday is that we don't have to see our teachers, right?"

Phil waves him off. "They're friends."

"Shall we invite Jemma too, then?" he asks.

Phil considers it but shakes his head. "I think that is a breach of the doctor patient contract. She could lose her license."

"Sure, sure," Tony says. "Bruce will be here, though. Parents are away for their anniversary."

Clint's not surprised when Phil doesn't bat an eye at that one. Bruce spent most of the holidays here. (His parents were always away somewhere.)

"Thor?" Phil wonders.

Steve shakes his head. "His brother's coming home for the holidays."

Clint snorts. "That should be fun." Loki definitely knew how to make things interesting.

"But put me down for a plus one," Steve adds. "I'll see if Bucky wants to come around."

"Same for me," Clint says.

"You're asking Bucky, too?" Tony jokes.

Clint fires off a breakfast sausage at him. "Natasha, you dolt."

They arrive at school just before the bell rings because Tony forgets half his stuff between his room and the door. This is what happens when genius brains get distracted with things like adoptions, Clint decides.

He navigates the sea of students and finds Natasha by her locker, head buried inside searching for her books.

"Morning," he whispers, trailing a quick finger down her back.

She doesn't startle the way he expects, instead eyeing him over her shoulder. "What's that look for?" she says.

"What look?" He slumps against the locker next to hers. "I don't have a look."

"You do. It means there's something you are dying to tell me."

He offers her a boyish grin, the fact that she already knows him so well making his skin warm. She looks skeptical in return, brows furrowing prettily and he takes pity on her.

"It's nothing bad, stop freaking out." He squeezes her shoulders gently. "I just wanted to know what your plans were for the long weekend. I mean, do you—"

"Do Ivan and I do the whole family and turkey thing?" She gives a derisive snort before snapping her locker closed. A warning bell dings and they start down the hall together. "Trust me, that's not on the radar."

Maybe he should feel guiltier about being happy that Natasha's uncle is an assholey deadbeat, but on this one occasion he appreciates Ivan's lack of concern, more importantly meaning that Natasha has no plans he has to work around. "Then come to the diner. Stay the weekend." He grabs her hand so she stops. The hall clears out around them as students file into class. "The whole weekend. Bruce and Bucky are coming. Phil's throwing the shindig of all shindigs. It'll be fun. Sam's cooking, so I can guarantee the food will be good if nothing else."

She bites her lip. He knows she's trying not to smile at how very eager he sounds, but he doesn't care. He'll get on his knees and beg if it means he gets to spend all weekend with her.

"Come on," he prods, taking her hand. "There's a farm we always get the turkey from. It has a haunted corn maze. It'll be fun."

She cocks a perfectly arched eyebrow at him. "Isn't it a bit passed Halloween?"

"It's a fall kind of thing," he insists.

"Strange old men dressed up as creepy things wielding scythes are not a fall kind of thing."

"It is until it snows," Clint protests.

Natasha chews on her lips for a moment. "I'll feel out Ivan. He won't like it, but I'll see. That's the best I can promise for now."

"Okay," Clint says, but he's smiling so hard that he has to peck her on the cheek to keep from bursting. She turns a pretty shade of pink at the contact. "That's fair. Also, Phil wants to adopt us."

She smacks him on the arm at that and he actually cringes.

"Why didn't you start with that?"

He shrugs. "Still processing I guess."

"What does that mean?"

"I didn't exactly tell him yes at breakfast."

It's her turn to yank on his hand, staggering him to a stop. "What stopped you?" she asks.

He huffs, blowing a breath against the carefully spiked tips of his hair. "I don't know. Shock, maybe? I've spent these last few years with Phil, just waiting for the other shoe to drop. The first few months were the worst. Every time something happened with me or Tony or Steve I'd wait for the phone call. For the social worker to show up. But it didn't happen and then I got comfortable and things started to feel normal and Phil did things that a real dad might do. And Steve and Tony treated me like brothers are supposed to. And then Phil gave us work. He bought us stuff. Guess I just didn't think I deserved things like that, so I kept waiting for it to be taken away. It was easier to forget, the longer it went on, but the fear was still there. The fear that everything could just—"

"Disappear," Natasha offers, looking down at their clasped hands.

Clint swallows and it seems obscenely loud in the hall.

"I like knowing you're a permanent fixture in town," Natasha says. "If that's what you want. Do you even want to be adopted?"

It takes him a minute to answer. "There are few things I'm sure of in my life," he says slowly, each word measured. "And that's one of them."

His voice is thick but she doesn't let him escape. They're good for each other like that. Sometimes they know exactly when to push. "Hey," she takes his hand, pulling him to a stop. "You should tell him."

"I know."

"Tonight. If it's what you really want."

He nods at her insistence. In the utter truth he reads in her eyes. "I will."

The rest of Thursday is a blur of crammed lessons and last minute quizzes before the break.

The highlight of Clint's day is actually when he gets home and finds a text from Natasha telling him that Ivan has plans out of town for the next five days, so she's free if the invitation's still open. Clint sends back thirty smiley faces prompting Natasha to ask if he's broken his phone yet.

He's still elated when he plops down on the opposite end of the couch from Phil.

"Is Natasha coming?"

"Just confirmed," Clint says and he can't help the smile that crawls across his face.

"I'm glad," Phil says.

"Me too."

"Everything good with that right now?"

Clint nods, knowing what he's asking. "It is."

Phil nods again and Clint makes the jump before he loses the nerve. He doesn't know why he's nervous anyway. It's not as if it's a secret that he wants to be here. So he just plows on.

"Uh, about what you said this morning, with the adoptions. I just wanted you to know that I want it. I want to sign that paper."

Phil looks up from his laptop, eyes widening, betraying the subconscious fear Clint knows he put there this morning. "You do?"

"I always did," Clint explains. "I was just waiting for the fake-out, you know? I mean, I've been here before, where things are good and life's looking up and then suddenly it all disappears."

"Clint, you'll never have to worry about that again."

"I know."

"This is where you belong, whether you want the adoption or not. We are you're family. Always."

"I know, Phil. But I do want it."

"Okay, then. I'll make the appointments." He blinks and wipes under the rim of his glasses. Eventually he just gives up and takes them off to dab at his eyes properly. It's a heavy moment, but Clint thinks it feels right. Phil blinks again, pushing his glasses back up his nose and pulling his laptop back onto his lap. "Okay, now down to business. I was thinking it's time to get started on the attic renovations. Make things a little more permanent. Get you that room."

"Really?" Clint says, scooting forward in his seat.

Phil nods. "I think between us and Sam we could bust it out. I was looking at the schematics again and if you'll compromise on closet space we could probably fit a small bathroom up there."

Tony chooses that exact moment to hop over the back of the couch, snagging the remote from Phil's side, switching on a movie. Ever the eavesdropper, he says, "You know, Bruce and I could run it—the electrical, the plumbing. It's not exactly hard."

Phil shakes his head. "I need someone with a stamp behind their name to sign off in case the adoption board wants to do another inspection before it goes through."

"Well we could do it and then just have someone sign off. Then you can use the money you save to buy new signage for the diner."

Steve joins them with a bowl of popcorn as Phil complains: "What's wrong with the signs now?"

"Two words," Tony mouths around a handful of kernels. "Digital innovation."

"You know, it's not about the money," Phil says. "The attic renovation has been planned for a while."

"Bucky could help, too," Steve says suddenly. "His dad was a contractor. He knows things."

Clint watches Phil consider the complexities of Bucky doing demolition. He's polite enough not to mention being one handed and trying to hammer a nail, but Clint knows the thought is there.

Tony hums thoughtfully though. "It would be a good test-run for the arm."

"Already?" Phil says.

"I've been doing small tests for functionality, but the only way to see how it really responds is for Bucky to wear it for a length of time, not just for a fitting. Bruce has it mapped out. We should be at that phase by then."

"Will it work?" Steve asks. "I mean will he be able to feel things?"

Tony runs a hand over his chin, like the answer is complex enough that he has to consider it. "In a way," he finally says. Then Tony proceeds to explain the science behind Bucky's new arm. About the neuron endings in his stump and the sensory movements that can be translated into the mechanics of the arm. How the synapses coming from Bucky's brain will trigger micro sensations that will be picked up and digitized by the arm's processor until it maps out which strands of information mean what. "In theory," he finishes.

"So it's like a computer?" Phil says, uncertain.

"Sort of. It's definitely a piece of software that will learn. The longer he has it on, the more intuitive the motions will become. Once that connection between brain and machine is forged, it'll be an extension of his thoughts. But like anything you train yourself to do, it'll take practice. The hardest thing will be for him to figure out how hard to hold things. So no hand holding for a while."

Steve turns a furious shade of red that they all pretend to ignore for his sake.

"Dude, why do you even go to school?" Clint says.

Tony's bark of laughter is immediately followed by a sigh that has them all looking around awkwardly. It wasn't often that the Tony Stark got sentimental, but sometimes there were moments and they were the moments that Clint felt closest to him.

"Mom didn't want me to grow up to be like dad," Tony says eventually, thumbing the volume on the TV until the voices disappear. "It's even tied up into my inheritance—me finishing high school at the right old age of eighteen. She wanted me to have a normal social experience."

"She didn't want you to be a crazy, super genius with no friends?" Clint jokes.

Tony chuckles, wringing his hands together around the remote. "Dad was brilliant, but he was antisocial, always tied up in his workshop. Sometimes it was like he forgot who I was. I don't remember a lot of him, just that he was cold. Not in a mean way, just sort of like he was distant." He shrugs. "But mom was right. People aren't so bad."

"Well, we try," Clint says. "But it's hard to compete with all your genius. It drains us." Tony dives head long into Clint then, tackling him into the cushions. Thirty seconds later they're somehow both pinned beneath Steve, laughing and spluttering for air.

"Boys, don't break each other," Phil warns.

Clint knocks three times on the back of the sofa and they all sit up.

"I don't need genius to compete with," Tony says. "You guys are enough."

Phil adjusts his glasses up his nose, blinking heavily.

"You have lots of time to change the world, Tony. Just enjoy being young while you can. That goes for all of you. And no old man jokes."

"Aw, come here, old man," Tony says anyway, reaching for Phil. There's another kind of tussle and again they all manage to get caught up in some choke hold beneath Steve.

"Be careful," Phil crows. "I am old. My bones are brittle."

"Yeah, Steve, you're biceps are like the size of my head. Be careful with the senior citizen."

"You're knees are in my ribs, Tony."

"Sorry, thought that was Clint."

They untangle and take their seats again, movie forgotten.

"I love you guys. Never doubt that."

They all look at each other and then groan in unison, chucking the rest of the spilled popcorn at Phil.

"We're being adopted by such a sap," Tony says. "Good thing we love you, too."

. . .

It's all hands on deck Friday night as the last of the customers pile in for the dinner rush. Clint's never been so busy (there's literally pasta sauce in his socks thanks to the kid in booth three), but he finds time to pause in the middle of his shift when Natasha arrives, overnight bag in hand, to plant a kiss on her cheek and lead her to an empty bar stool. Sam wolf whistles from the kitchen window. Soon after that he sends Natasha out a chicken burger and fries. She drowns it in so much ketchup that it's almost unrecognizable.

Clint gets wisped back to work but is pleasantly surprised when he looks up later to find that Natasha's been recruited by Sam and Phil as an official pie flavour sampler. Lord knows he and Tony and Steve could never come to a consensus.

He pauses with a tray of dirty dishes on his hip, admiring the easy interaction between Natasha and Phil.

He always thought things in the house worked because they were all guys. It was easy to relate to sports and fast cars, but watching him now, perched on the seat beside Natasha, sampling pie flavours for the dinner on Sunday, he can see that Phil's just a good dad. The world missed out on giving him a family, but it didn't matter now since he'd made his own.

Still, Clint smirks as Phil regales a tale, going full hand motions on Natasha. From the way her face lights he thinks it's about that time Steve smashed his way through the bathroom door butt naked, prompting their impromptu bathroom renovation. By the end Natasha is laughing so hard her cheeks must hurt because she squeezes them with her hands. It's her real laugh, too, and Clint feels a warmth bubble in him at how easy it is for her to be around Phil. How easily she fits in here, with Tony flinging brotherly teases at her and Steve greeting her with a one-armed hug the way he might a sister.

He's glad she's found a place she fits. The fact that it happens to be with him is just icing on the cake. Or whip cream on the pie?

He chuckles as Natasha fills her mouth from the bottle of whipped cream, her cheeks puffed up like a chipmunk until she swallows.

"Yo, Barton, these plates aren't going to serve themselves," Sam barks, hanging out the kitchen door. He points the spatula at Clint before ducking back behind the door.

It was for his safety that Sam remained back there. It wasn't a secret that Sam was a very eligible bachelor in a very small town. The ex-airforce thing and the fact that he could cook filled the seats alone. Women would come for brunch just to catch a glimpse of him humming Sunday morning gospel over pancake batter.

Clint spins back around, dropping the dirty dishes off and sweeping a new tray off the counter that Peggy's just prepared. She rings up one more bill before clocking out for the night, pecking Steve on the cheek and dropping the keys to the till in his hands.

The diner is emptied by nine and by ten the last of the dishes are being spun through the wash.

"Place looks good," Tony declares.

Phil agrees with a nod, locking up and dimming the OPEN sign. He closes the blinds and spins to face them all. "Okay, we're leaving at two tomorrow. So if you're up all night and sleep through lunch I'm leaving you here. I'll be picking up the turkey tomorrow so we'll take two cars."

"I'm picking out the bird," Sam corrects, wiping his hands on a terry cloth and tossing it back through the galley window. "Cook's order."

"Sam, I can manage to pick a turkey and prep it. You take the day off tomorrow. We'll see you Sunday."

"No, I'll deal with the bird. You're not allowed in my kitchen. Not after that cookie disaster."

"That was one time," Phil insists with an exaggerated eye roll. Sam's brutal distrust for Phil near anything remotely cooking related was one of Clint's favourite things in the world. It was definitely a never-ending source of amusement that he thinks he could film and sell to a networked television company.

Sam's head shake is sharp and fast. "Nah, I was scrapping dough off the ceiling for an entire shift."

"Oh, that's the day we only served pie," Steve says, snapping his fingers at the memory, a stupid grin on his face.

"Because there were chocolate chips in my burners," Sam continues. "So Phil, no kitchen. I've put the leftovers in the house fridge. I swear to God if I find out you've been in there—"

"Alright, message received," Phil deadpans.

"Good. I'll see you all tomorrow." He paws them all on the shoulder, giving Natasha's hair a sweet tug as he leaves. They hear his motorcycle kick to life and then grumble down the drive.


	11. Chapter 11

The next morning is a hectic mess, and for a while Clint thinks he's dreaming. He's woken up by a very snuggly Natasha worming her way under the covers on his couch (they still share the living room when she stays over). Her feet are freezing as she jams them between his legs. It's still dark outside so Clint knows it's before seven.

"Jesus," he hisses, wrapping an arm around her back so she doesn't tumble off the couch.

She rubs her nose against his chest. "Tell Phil to turn the heat up. You live in an ice box."

"I think it's just you. I thought you were from Russia."

"Meaning?" she murmurs.

"The cold?"

"I hate the cold."

Clint yawns. "Well you can stay here with me."

She must nod, but he falls asleep again shortly after that, the constant exhale of Natasha's breath warming his collarbone.

It must be a few hours later since the sun is high and warm, sending a pale glow across the back of the couch when Clint's woken up again, this time with a sharp pinch to the toe. It jostles them and Natasha's hands snake around him tighter, holding her position.

Clint blinks down the couch to where Bucky sits, chewing on a Poptart. "Steve said to warn you. Phil's on his way down."

"Phil's already here," Phil says, passing the couch with a raised eyebrow.

"It's was cold down here!" Clint declares, refusing to let Natasha up, even though they've been caught. He watches Phil make his way over to the thermostat with a satisfied smirk before burying his head back into Natasha's curls.

"Good one, Barton, use the body heat excuse," Tony says as he passes in his pajamas to open the garage door for Bruce.

Steve hurdles the back of the couch, managing to avoid stepping on them, with another plate of food and plops down beside Bucky.

"I tried to warn you," he says to Clint.

"It's okay. I think we were saved by the thermostat."

Bruce waddles his way over to the couch, hands stuffed in his pockets and sits between them all. "I'm feeling very much like the fifth wheel here."

Clint snorts. "Don't. You can snuggle up in here, too."

"Tony, bring Bruce some breakfast," Steve calls.

"Here, darling," Tony drawls a moment later, stuffing a plate of toast under Bruce's nose. "Eat."

Natasha rolls away from Clint, sitting up and taking the blankets with her. Her hair is ruffled and her nose wrinkles with sleep. Clint follows her upstairs where they left her duffle bag and at some point they both end up in the bathroom, together, brushing their teeth. He watches her in the mirror, watching him, and kisses her cheek with toothpaste still on his lips. She shrieks around a mouthful of toothpaste at him.

He washes his face while she brushes her hair, untangling the curls that wrap around her neck. It's different with her, this morning thing: so different than brushing elbows with Tony and Steve and occasionally, Bruce and Thor. Standing next to Natasha like this makes his stomach kind of fluttery. He helps her pin her hair back, liking the way it slips through his fingers, and she straightens out the spikes of hair next to his ears.

"You look presentable," she declares.

He just grins at her and shakes his head, leaving her the privacy of the bathroom to get changed while he searches his closet for a pair of jeans.

When he finds her again she's sitting at the kitchen table between Steve and Bucky, listening to the 'who's driving' argument. For once Clint doesn't put his name in for the draw, much preferring to sit next to Natasha for an hour and make fun of Tony's incessant need to check his blind spots.

They pile into the van thirty minutes later and spend so long fighting over the radio station that Sam and Phil leave in Lola without them.

Natasha and Clint end up in the back. She's half sprawled on him while he plays with her hair, separating it into strands over his thighs.

"That feels nice," he murmurs.

Tony snorts from the front.

"Don't make me come up there, Stark," she warns and Clint laughs, shaking his head.

All in all they arrive at the farm in one piece, a little over an hour later. Steve's knuckles are scratched after reaching for the radio one too many times (Dammit, Rogers! I said leave it!) but the mood is playful as they all tumble out of the van, finding Phil and Sam enjoying coffee and debating bird size.

"It'll definitely fit in the oven," Sam insists, patting the frozen hunk of turkey that's now taking up the back seat in Phil's convertible.

Phil rolls his eyes, turning to them. "Thought you lot might have gotten lost."

"Tony missed the turn off," Clint explains. "Twice."

"It was marked with a scarecrow," Tony says. "How was I supposed to know?"

They spend an hour wandering the farm together, petting animals (no we are not getting a sheep, Clint!) and sampling maple candy and fudge. Eventually Sam fears for the turkey and cajoles Phil into just leaving the group money for dinner.

"They're seventeen. They'll remember to feed themselves."

"Oh, alright. Just make sure you do. And don't be too late." He presses a few twenties into Tony's hand and then, as if sizing up both Steve and Bucky, presses a few more. "I mean it, Tony," Phil calls after them. "I want you home by midnight!"

"Make good choices," Sam calls.

"Always," Tony says, saluting them.

The last thing Clint hears is Phil chastising and Sam's cackle of, "What kind of trouble do you really think they'll get into. They're at a farm!"

They take one more round of the barn before the animals are penned up for the night. Clint takes a bunch of photos on his phone, mostly for blackmail, (Bucky holding a cotton-tailed rabbit is the most legit thing he's ever seen in his life) but also because the image of Natasha holding a curly, dewy haired lamb is the most adorable thing he's ever seen. Her smile frozen on his home screen is enough to make his heart patter.

They eat just before the sun sets, all of them piling in at a picnic bench seated with a checkered red and white table cloth. It's greasy onion rings and fries on the menu tonight, with half a dozen hotdogs and a pitcher of apple cider to wash it down.

The meal devolves into some kind of contest between Steve and Bucky and Clint no longer wonders why they're both six foot tall walking mounds of muscle.

He's also not holding the barf bag when they both get car sick later, but hey, pick your battles, right?

"Okay," Tony announces, chucking his balled up tinfoil at the open garbage can several feet away. He misses spectacularly and Clint spends the next two minutes sinking every tinfoil ball Natasha can find for him with one eye open just to be annoying.

"Okay," Tony tries again, conceding to the fact that Clint has the superior aim (Yes, especially in the dark, Barton). "Haunted maze, who's ready?"

Clint resists the urge to squeal like a five year old as he pulls Natasha to her feet.

Tony presses something into her hand. "Take a flashlight, Red, in case Barton passes out on you."

"Yeah, let's not forget who was screaming last year, Stark."

"Har, har," Tony mouths.

They start the maze as a group, because hey, they're safer in numbers, but it takes three people jumping out at them to establish the fact that Tony is not allowed to be the leader because he flails and prances on peoples toes.

When his arm swings out and collides with Bruce's chest, almost sending the guy into an asthma attack, Steve and Bucky take the lead and it's a lot more fun that way.

Natasha shrieks along with the rest of them, hiding her face against Clint's shoulder for most of it as she staggers along behind him. He can feel her laughter, never mind hear it, and his pulse races in his neck, fear and adrenaline giving him a contact high.

Eventually they reach what seems to be the center of the maze. They can hear laughter and mingled screams carry in every direction.

"Now where?" Steve says, whipping his head between each darkened pathway.

Tony gives him a sort of devilish smirk and then springs forward to snag Steve's hat from his head (Hey!), tossing it to Bucky, who nudges it towards Natasha. She grins up a Clint and then takes off into the darkness.

He's on her trail as the others disperse, the clump, clump of her footsteps so much quieter then the others.

He rounds a corner he's sure he saw her flip around when a hand reaches out and yanks him almost off his feet.

His comes nose to nose with her and she's grinning up at him, breathing hard.

"This happens every year," Clint says, panting. "Steve should really consider ditching the hat."

"How do we win?" Natasha asks him, breathlessly.

The corner of Clint's mouth lifts. "Get out of the maze without getting caught."

She takes his hand then, eyes alive and determined. "Come on then, we have to move. Steve's got Bucky. He can find anyone."

Clint clicks his tongue. "He's never been here before."

Natasha barks a laugh, slowing as they approach what looks to be another one of those corners where people in black jump out at you. Her voice drops. "Please, this is just corn. Try navigating the back roads of Russia."

They duck the corner, off the beaten down trail, as voices emerge from behind. The steps are fast and heavy as Natasha drags him diagonal through the corn, head whipping about to follow the orbs of flashlight that pass along the trail. She stops and Clint whispers in her ear, tickling her neck and she hushes him.

He laughs against her as a group of people pass. One of them mutters something he can't understand and Natasha stiffens. It must be Bucky.

Clint shifts to get closer, but Natasha pulls him further into the corn, shrouded in darkness.

"We do have that flashlight," he whispers.

"They'll see."

"Not from here."

"Shhh, they'll hear you."

"You're really—"

She grabs his collar and hauls him down towards her face, smothering his words with her lips.

"Will you shut up already?" she whispers against his skin, teeth worrying his bottom lip. "I want to win."

He can taste her chapstick—strawberry he thinks—but the thoughts dance through whatever filters remain in his mind as her tongue delves into his mouth and then it's all he can do to get his hands on her face and not send them tumbling into a heap at the base of a corn stalk.

When he pulls away he's breathless and silent. Natasha nods, apparently satisfied that her point has been made.

She takes his hand again and leads him on a dizzying trail that takes them through the maze, sidelong of the real trail, away from the creepily dressed men jumping out at screeching teens.

When they finally break through the corn it's onto a darkened piece of grass next to the parking lot. Bucky and Steve are standing by the van, heads bent close. Steve looks up as they approach and Natasha holds the hat up in victory.

"Bucky said you would use an illicit trail. I should call you out for cheating, though there are no rules in the maze."

Bucky mumbles something to Natasha in Russian and she sticks her tongue out, ducking behind Clint as Bucky makes a good-natured swipe for her.

Then someone screams inside the maze and they all look up. It's followed by a string of Stark-stamped swears.

"What was that?" Natasha says.

Steve and Clint sigh.

"Tony. That happens every year, too."

"Poor Bruce," Bucky mutters. "Shall we go rescue them?"

Natasha relinquishes the hold on Steve's hat, plopping it down on his head, and watches them run off like two commandos, melting back into shadow.

"Are we not going with them?" Clint asks.

She shakes her head. "I think they can handle it. Besides," she snakes her hands under his sweater, "I kind of wanted to do some more of this." Then she's kissing him again, her hand threading into his short hair to pull his face to her, warm and firm, a welcomed contrast to the crisp night.

When Steve and Bucky finally return, Clint is sitting on the hood of the van, Natasha leaning between his legs, inhaling the scent of her shampoo.

"I see the rescue mission was a success," Natasha says.

"Russian's are crazy," is all Tony mutters as he gets into the van.

Bruce is staring at Bucky with some sort of fear mingled awe.

"This was fun," Natasha says, "I'm glad I came."

"Sometimes it's good to be a goof," Clint agrees.

. . .

They sleep until noon the next day, because they can, both remaining on their respective couches (because Phil's adjusted the thermostat), but when they wake up Thanksgiving is in full swing, the scent of warm bread and apple crisp filling the entire house, bleeding in from the diner.

Natasha looks a little dazed as she sits up, unsure until Clint crawls over and plants a kiss against her head. "Morning," he whispers.

"Hey," she says, yawning and rubbing the sleep from her eyes.

There's a crash from out in the diner and Sam screeches like a banshee and Phil shouts that he wasn't really in the kitchen.

Clint snickers and it makes Natasha's hair flutter. "Let's get dressed. We're missing all the fun."

The actual dinner part of the holiday turns out okay, Clint thinks. The food is exceptional of course. Sam out does himself with three different kinds of stuffing.

Fury and Ms. Hill turn up. Peggy brings her friend Angie and if Clint thinks they look at each other as more than friends, then hey, he's glad she's happy. He also doesn't miss the way Sam and Ms. Hill hit it off. He doesn't ever really think he's heard her laugh like that (laugh at all?), but it might just be the wine.

Still, Natasha grins at the scene under her eyelashes and he knows she thinks it too, and with the way her heads tips maybe she thinks they'd be good for each other.

Dinner winds into dessert, which winds into what they're all thankful for at Phil's insistence (Sam's cooking gets top marks, making him beam his thousand watt smile), and everyone is really just grateful that Tony and Bruce manage not to blow anything up before the meal's over.

At one point, while the festivities break down into a well-managed chaos of getting all the dishes back into the kitchen (managed by Ms. Hill of course), Clint watches Fury pull Bucky aside. He thinks he hears the words 'school' and 'scholarships' mentioned before a business card is exchanged.

Fury slinks away like some sort of spy after a transfer and it makes Clint grin stupidly.

The people in his life are actually exceptional.

The house is quieter after dinner, when the guests leave (when the mess has been contained). Bucky makes his way back home to spend time with his mother and Tony and Bruce escape to their 'lab' to do evil genius things.

Clint and Natasha retire to the basement where Steve is knocking his way through a punching bag in the makeshift gym. Natasha watches him with what might be admiration, but there's also curiosity there.

"If you wanted, I could show you," Steve offers, catching the bag as it swings back towards him.

She looks over at Clint, as if looking for permission. He waves his hands. "Have at it," he says and proceeds to sit on the back of the sofa to watch.

She changes her clothes into something sleek and black and form fitting. Steve doesn't bat an eye as he walks her through some basic steps. Jab. Cross. She's got those down from the kickboxing she does occasionally. Then he ties them into sequences and before Clint knows it, Natasha and Steve are tumbling around on the mat, laughing and sweaty, hands flying into open palms, the quick slap, slap of skin on skin pulling Clint's eyes between them.

Her dancing shows in the way she moves around Steve, he thinks. She graceful, lithe on her feet, and almost slippery. She squirms her way in and out of moves, around Steve, behind him, giggling as he turns to keep up with her. They roll against each other and the shape of her body as it curves around Steve is enough to make Clint's sitting position uncomfortable. He readjusts twice, trying not to be obvious about how much this is turning him on.

Natasha in skin tight work out gear is a seduction all on its own. The way she moves though, the way she fights, that is something entirely different.

Clint knows Steve must be head over heels for Bucky because there's no reaction from the way Natasha moves against him, and Clint is utterly grateful for that because he doesn't think he wants to add insane jealously to his resume right now.

"Okay, okay," Steve laughs, smacking the mat. Natasha springs to her feet.

"You were going easy on me," she protests.

Steve laughs, "Only until you started landing punches."

She grins, just a small twist of her lips.

"I need to protect my arm for football," Steve says, "but Clint's not bad if you want another sparring partner. Quick on his feet."

Natasha arches an eyebrow over her shoulder, an invitation, and Clint wanders over casually.

"I can't fight my girlfriend," he says.

"Says who?" Natasha asks.

"Your boyfriend."

She smiles coyly at that.

"Well, you two figure this out," Steve says, swiping a hand over his head. "I'm going to get a drink. Anyone want anything?"

Clint doesn't really know if he was offering because he doesn't wait for a response, just takes the stairs two at a time, and Clint wonders of maybe he was just trying to give them some time alone.

"I promise not to hurt you," Natasha offers once the door at the top of the stairs snaps shut.

"Har, har," Clint says, but he moves fast, swinging his arm out near her head.

She catches on quickly and brings her forearm up in a block, skin sliding off skin. They move like that for a few minutes—quick little bursts, leaving them on opposite sides of the mat. Natasha grins in a way that's equal parts calculating and teasing. The tease is making it harder for him to swallow—harder to focus—and he realizes with embarrassing clarity, that it's because the blood is once again leaving his brain for a more southern destination.

"This must be another one of your insane secret talents," Clint says when she's ended up behind him with her hands wrapped around his waist. She laughs, the sound turning into a giggle as he spins out of the hold, sweeping his leg around hers and bringing them both down to the mat.

He pins her arms above her head, hips hovering over hers. He doesn't flatten against her because he knows she'll feel his arousal and he's trying not to be a caveman.

Her eyes flick down to the tent in his pants though and back up to his face. He doesn't know exactly what he reads in her expression and it unnerves him, but then she bites the inside of her cheek, dancing her fingertips along the hold he has on her wrists.

She distracts him by thrusting her hips up (too close, far too close, he thinks) and uses the power in her legs to wrap around his thighs and flip them over.

Her weight settles on him and he groans, stopping the sound midway out his mouth.

"Sorry," she whispers, a shy smile licking up her face. She scoots up a little, settling on his stomach instead. "I think I won though."

"You cheated," he says.

"Maybe."

"I'm telling Steve you're a cheater."

"He might believe you; I don't think he'll have this problem, though." She flattens her hands on his chest and rubs herself against him one more teasing time.

He swallows hard and stares at the ceiling above her head, every muscle in his body tense under the contact.

He doesn't move to touch her though, or grope, or anything else, hands flat behind his head, and she sighs with a little smile. He gives her no reason to doubt the way he'll treat her, even when it comes to this . . . if it ever comes to this. He hopes she knows that, and he thinks she does when she whispers, "You're a good guy, Clint Barton."

She presses a kiss to his forehead before rolling off him and doesn't comment when he excuses himself to use the bathroom.

. . .

Bucky comes back the next morning—the last morning of the holiday—and they all bum around like real bums, sitting in their pajamas, watching movies, and eating pizza.

The couches are so cluttered that Phil doesn't even attempt to join, merely shakes his head fondly at the menagerie of teenagers in his living room before disappearing for his office. Clint's actually surprised he doesn't try to take a photo.

"What are you drawing so furiously over there?" Natasha asks Steve suddenly, looking up from where her head was nestled on Clint's shoulder.

Steve just smirks over his sketchbook, eyes flicking up and down. "Stop moving," he says. "Put your head back on Clint's shoulder."

"Why?"

"You're ruining the proportions."

"Is this better?" Natasha asks, scrunching her face and sticking her tongue out playfully.

Steve rolls his eyes at her.

"I'll fix the proportions," Clint murmurs, grabbing Natasha by the arms and tucking them behind her back. He knocks her over with a brush of his hip, pinning her with his body.

Natasha giggles under her breath, before outright laughing as he attacks, hands twining beneath her shirt to feel her skin as he tickles.

She squirms, tucking her head against his chest. "Stop, I swear, Clint."

"You swear what? You'll sit nice so Steve can draw your picture."

"Uh, you two must bleed rainbows and unicorns when you're together," Tony groans. "The sweetness is sickening."

Clint laughs, pulling Natasha up and wrapping his arms around her. He holds her, squishing her close before running his hands down her arms to squeeze her hands.

"Well someone should take a picture," Bucky says. He sits beside Steve, close enough that they're thighs are touching. "The last time I heard Natasha laugh like that we must have been seven."

Clint watches her give a shy smile, eyes downcast as she examines her hands, tangled with his. "Yeah," she mumbles, "I guess it was."


	12. Chapter 12

When Tuesday arrives Clint wants to rewind and just live in a perpetual state of last weekend. It had been perfect as far as he was concerned: good food, friends, and most of all Natasha. He doesn't know if he'll ever be able to get her out of his system. If this weightless bubble in his chest is ever going to dissipate or if the giddy pleasure he feels when he sees her is ever going to stop.

Not that he wants it too.

The only problem with it really is how much he misses her when she isn't around. Her smile and her laugh, the things that brighten his day, the things that perk him up even before a cup of coffee. So he lingers, wasting time choosing a shirt—maroon maybe—because he knows once these menial tasks are done that the weekend is officially over and that means it's time to go back to real life.

The bubble from the weekend will burst and he'll have to compete with the rest of the world for Natasha's attention.

But he also knows Natasha and Bruce are waiting on rides to school, so he pulls his leather jacket from the closet and slips it on over the maroon tee.

"Dude, you ready or what?" Tony asks, bustling back into the room. He drops to his knees, unearthing things from under his bed—tools and half assembled inventions and a pair of lights that look like eyeballs. "Steve's about to stage an intervention."

"For what?" Clint asks, watching the top of Tony's head disappear between his bed and the wall.

"I don't know, but he's pacing." A screw driver goes flying in the direction of the hall and Clint's never be so happy for his reflexes. "You know how he hates to be late."

Clint rolls his eyes. "We're not going to be late."

Tony emerges, huffing like he's just unearthed himself from a tomb. Then he clambers over the top of his bed, snatches up supplies from his desk, and slides a sheet of schematics into his back pocket.

"Hey," Tony calls suddenly and Clint turns on his way out the door, catching the box Tony's tossed towards him.

"What's this?" he asks, flipping it over and the words die in his throat. "Dude, what the—"

"The box is brand new, with the receipt still attached. So if you don't like them or whatever, you can exchange them."

There's a tightness in his chest now, and he doesn't know whether to be embarrassed or amused. "Question still stands."

Tony shrugs. "Thought I'd do the big brother thing. Have fun. Don't get her pregnant."

"Tony, I'm two months older than you."

"Yeah, well, Steve's the oldest of all of us, but he sure as hell isn't going to dole out condoms." He looks thoughtful for a moment. "Maybe I should get him some, too. You think?"

Clint shakes his head. "Please don't. You'll embarrass him to death."

Tony laughs, loud and hard, like a bark. "Don't I know it. So, do you need explanations? How everything works? Still remember the banana thing from gym class?" He pauses, obviously waiting for some sort of response and when he doesn't get one, he just plows on. "Look, you and Bobbi hung out last year, but did you ever—"

Clint shakes his head sharply. He doesn't really want to talk about Bobbi, especially in this regard, especially holding a box of condoms that Tony obviously means for him to use with his current girlfriend. He rubs a hand over his face. The weekend had been going so well, too. "It never got that far," he mutters, half expecting Tony to laugh. When he doesn't Clint drops his hand.

"Alright, well take some advice from me—"

"Oh, right, you have a different girl every week, Tony."

"Lies."

Clint hikes up a brow, challenging, though Tony doesn't fold.

"I'm a changed man," he insists, pointing at Clint with the schematics that were in his pocket a second ago.

"Sure you are."

"That aside, Clinton," Tony says dramatically. "Have you once heard them complain? No. That's because I know what I'm talking about. You want to make Natasha feel—"

Ah God! This conversation needs to stop. "I know what I'm doing," Clint rushes to say. "Maybe you should be using some of those feel good moves on Pepper."

"That's my problem. She doesn't want to sleep with me."

"Maybe she just really doesn't like you."

"Oh, she does." Tony's grin is playful, like it's a game he's trying to win. "She's just the type that you have to peel back slowly. Pepper's got substance."

Clint snorts. "Way more than you apparently."

"Hey! I can be deep. I just usually go the easy way and the ladies appreciate my assets." He holds up a finger to make a point. "And the fact that I know what to do with them."

As much as Clint never wanted to have this conversation with Phil, getting it from Tony might just be a thousand times worse, and he resists the urge to face palm because he can tell Tony's being sincere. At least, as sincere as a Stark can be when talking about sex. So Clint simply shakes his head. "Maybe Pepper knows you give yourself too much credit."

"You know, I really feel like it would seal the deal between us."

"Don't think she could resist you and your assets?"

"Not once she knows what I have to offer. Only problem is she's not interested in that right now."

"Good thing there's a line up waiting for those Tony Stark assets, huh?"

Tony shakes his head then, and the way his brow furrows makes Clint go quiet. "Nah, Pepper's the real deal. I'm gunna wait it out. I'm gunna wait her out and make her love me anyway."

"So that's been your plan all along? Bringing her tea and sandwiches all these months."

Tony's lips quirk at the corner. "Gotta start somewhere. Speaking of which, when you and Natasha—"

"If you finish that sentence, I'm actually going to hurt you."

Tony throws his hands up in exasperation. "Honestly, Clint. I don't know what the big deal is. I'm trying to make this better for both of you."

"And thanks for that, but we'll figure it out on our own." He tries pressing the box back into Tony's hand. "You keep your assets to yourself."

Tony waves him away. "Trust me, Clint. When it happens, you'll be glad you're prepared."

"Maybe it's not going to happen."

Tony snorts before laying his hand on Clint's arm. "Look, if a girl looked at me the way Natasha looks at you I wouldn't be worried about how she felt about me in that sense." With that he slips his bag over his shoulder, tucking the schematics under his arm. "Well, this escalated quickly. You know I hate touchy feely before breakfast."

And then he's gone.

Clint looks around wide-eyed, like Phil's bound to walk in any moment and turn the kind of beat red Steve likes to wear when he's embarrassed. "Ridiculous," he mutters to himself. He stuffs the condoms under his bed, rolling his eyes as he takes off after Tony. But the tightness in his chest doesn't resolve; in fact, it nags at him for most of the morning, only growing tighter when Natasha slips her hand in his and he tries his best, but his own smile feels a little forced, even to him.

. . .

The rest of the day is relatively uneventful, except for the shifty eyes Tony keeps sending him at lunch, prompting Clint to kick him especially hard in the shin. Natasha gives him a curious look at that, but this is definitely one conversation he isn't having at the lunch table with his friends, so he avoids the topic by stuffing a piece of pizza in his mouth.

Class provides a good distraction. In the post turkey lull, his teachers have all vamped up their workload for the upcoming December finals, and he's bogged down with so much reading that he hardly has a chance to glance across the class at Natasha or think about Tony and his stupid condoms.

That is until the bell rings and he offers to walk Natasha home. He doesn't know why he does that (they usually just drop her off in the van) but maybe some subconscious part of him wants to talk. Or maybe he's just avoiding putting himself in an enclosed space with both Tony and Natasha.

She doesn't question it, just does up her coat and presses herself close to his side as they walk.

He still thinks he's kidding himself sometimes (most of the time) because someone as amazing as Natasha couldn't possibly want to spend her free time with him.

But she does.

And she's here. Wearing the sweater he gave her that one football game. So that has to mean something. But does she like him that much? Does she like him enough that maybe she thinks about what it would be like to do more than just kiss? To . . . was Tony right about the way she looked at him?

Ugh . . . . his brain hurts from thinking about it. Over-thinking. Under-thinking. Is it possible to give yourself a brain aneurism from too much thinking?

It's too soon to be thinking things like that anyway. They don't have to figure things like that out right now. There'll be time for that later.

But then there was the sparring this weekend and, god, did she ever make him feel . . . aw, hell. He knows she knew. He could tell by that gentle smirk, the way she moved over him, teasing and cautious all at once, like she was afraid of spooking him as much as he was nervous about her reaction.

Maybe it's something they should talk about. Before it becomes something.

But how do you just drop that into conversation?

Planning those kinds of things had never been his forte. Before . . . well, in his past, it just sort of happened. There wasn't so much talk of how it would happen. Just kissing and skin and before he knew it, that was that.

But with Natasha, gosh, he wants it to be more. He wants it to mean more.

He wants it to be good.

Hell, maybe Tony was right. Maybe . . . no, he is not about to start taking sex advice from Tony Stark. What is wrong with him?

Clint shakes his head, like it might make the thoughts realign properly, but the only thing he manages to do is give himself the beginnings of a headache.

He should really drink something.

The closer they get to the building the slower Natasha seems to walk. Clint doesn't mind though, just adjusts the length of his stride to match hers. The sun beats off the top of a dark SUV parked on the corner of the street, a few feet from the driveway of the building. The windows are tinted, but the driver's side is rolled down enough for Clint to catch a glimpse of dark shades and a heavy five o'clock shadow.

The window goes up as they approach.

As far as creeps went, Ivan had certainly picked the right place to settle down.

Clint entwines his fingers a little harder with Natasha's, pulling her against his side.

In response she looks up at him, a contemplating frown etched across her face.

He tries to smile away the feeling in his gut. He really does, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes the way it usually does with her, and he knows she notices. It's in the little flash of fear he detects as her eyes widen and then pull away from his.

He thinks they might spend the rest of the walk in silence, but then she surprises him (she's always surprising him) and in a voice softer than he expects, asks, "You okay?"

"Fine," is the automatic answer. It tumbles out without thought. Without meaning. Before he's really even contemplated what to tell her of how he's feeling.

She squeezes his hand. "It's just, you've been quiet today. Sort of off since this morning." She's quiet for a moment before adding. "Is it something . . . did I, uh. I sort of thought this weekend went really well."

He stops then, staggering a bit as his soles scuff the sidewalk, his brain moving faster than his body. "Jesus, no Tash, it's not that. It's nothing like that. This weekend was perfect. It was . . . I was so happy, you don't even know." He brings his hand up to catch the side of her face, fingers wrapping around the hair behind her ear.

Her hand comes up to cover his. "Then what is it? Something's bothering you."

"It's just Tony. He's being . . . well let's just say he's being Tony. It's nothing serious. Don't worry about it."

She doesn't smile when he gives her one of his goofy grins. Instead, she bites her lip and looks at their shoes, planted side by side. "If it's nothing, then why won't you tell me?"

"Natasha—"

"Is it me? Did he say something about me?"

Clint sighs, eyeing the sky for a moment. "Don't freak out or anything, but Tony bought me condoms. Well us. I guess he bought us condoms . . . shit. Not that I expect . . . not that, uh, that . . ."

To his immediate surprise she giggles. It's soft and muffled by the collar of her coat where she's buried her nose away from the cold, but it is definitely a laugh. "It's okay, Clint. You can say sex. It's not taboo."

He lets out another breath, this one tainted with relief so thick he thinks he could probably catch it and let it sift through his fingers. "I know. I just, we haven't really talked about it."

She gives him a timid smile. "But you've thought about it?"

"You know the answer to that, so I'm not even going to embarrass myself with an answer."

She nods a little, turning to continue their walk. She thinks for a long moment, tugging him along after her. "I want you, too, you know. Like that," she says. Her eyes flicker back to him and then away again. "I just don't want to rush things based on feelings that are physical until we have everything else straight. I'm not the most together person if you haven't noticed."

He smiles a crooked little smile at her. "That makes two of us."

She stops again, concern threaded across her face. It's in the hard dip of her brows and the pucker of her lips. "But you've got Phil. The guys. You're more stable than I am. Sometimes I feel like this whole relationship is going to slip away and I'm afraid of tying myself to you any more than I already have. I don't want to lose you."

"Tash, you're not going to lose me. I'm here." He squeezes her hands, holding them against his chest. "I'll always be right here. And I'm not pushing for anything." He places a gentle kiss against her fingers, chilled from the air. "You know, you're not the only one who's gotten all tangled up here."

She smiles at that. "It's nice," she admits slowly and he waits for her to finish her thought. "To know that you want me. Like that, but also not like that. That we can spar and kiss and eat pizza with the guys and it stills makes me feel warm inside." She swallows. "I've never had that. My mom wasn't exactly present and Ivan, well, you know. But with you it's easy," she whispers. "Everything is easy." She brings their arms down, resting his hands along her hips, his thumbs sliding beneath her jacket and under the hem of her shirt to ghost soft skin. She won't look at him now, but he can hear the emotion in her voice, harder than before. "This would be easy, too. It would be nice and I wouldn't regret it after."

He swallows. He hears a but in there somewhere.

"But I don't get easy, Clint. My life doesn't work like that and I keep waiting for the other shoe to drop." Her fingertips skim his palms, eyes still turned away. "What if I don't get to keep you?"

"You do, Tasha. I promise."

Her smile is thin as she fights off a sigh. Her lips twist a little as she looks up at him. Her lower lids are red-rimmed. "Tony really bought us condoms, huh?"

"Said for me not to get you pregnant."

She hikes an eyebrow. "At least he's practical," she says, fingers wrapping around his elbows as she leans back to look at him. "Um, well we're being completely and utterly honest about this kind of stuff, you should know I'm not a virgin."

"Oh," is all Clint says for a moment. He's not shocked as much as he is curious about this person that she let into her life. This person that was close enough for her to want to share this part of herself with. His brow furrows deep as he considers this and then on a whim he asks, "It wasn't Bucky, was it?"

That makes her laugh. "No, it wasn't. He's always been gay. But it was someone back home."

"Was it serious?" Clint asks.

Natasha shakes her head like she's shaking off a memory. "He was a fellow dancer. He was nice, but it only happened once and never again." She bites her lip. "There were no real feelings there. Just a shared passion I guess."

Clint takes that in stride and he wonders if things about their pasts will always catch the other off guard. He supposes, since they're being honest and since she's already opened the door, he owes her the same.

"My record's a bit more substantial, but not by much. I'm not, well let's just say I'm not Tony. But there was a girl the summer before I moved in with Phil. We frequented the same youth groups."

"She was a foster child?"

"All the people I knew grew up in the system. And there's been two since starting at SHIELD."

"Two in two years is definitely not a Tony," Natasha says. She's taping his chest with her finger, maybe unconsciously because he can tell she's somewhere very far away. "Was one of them Bobbi?" she asks.

"No. It never got that far." He raises a brow. "How'd you find out about her?"

Natasha shrugs. "Locker room. You hear things."

Clint sighs. "Nothing bad, I hope."

This makes Natasha pause and for a moment his stomach drops. Then she says, "She is still very fond of you from what I've gathered."

"I don't think she gets it. The just friends thing."

"Well, you are a very likable guy."

Clint snorts. "You might be the only other person heading up that line, but I'll take it."

Natasha shakes her head. "Girls talk. They have this kind of rating system and a list. It's very official. Written in sharpie on the bathroom wall. Steve's at the top, of course, though I don't think they've quite figured out that he bats for the other team yet. You're up there, too. Something about your eyes. And the archery." Her hands slide up his sides. "And your arms."

Clint's smile is boyishly crooked and he knows it, though he can't help indulging her. "Tony does insist that I have the arms of a marble statue."

She squeezes his biceps. "He knows his stuff."

"They really have a list?"

Natasha bites the inside of her cheek, fighting a smile; though there's something faintly off about the way she murmurs: "Yes."

"Is this what jealous Natasha looks like?" Clint wonders, wrapping his arms around her to hug her close. "Because I think I like her."

She chuckles against his skin, but it falls a little flat. "You don't . . . you don't still have feelings for Bobbi, do you?"

Damn. This is definitely not where he wanted this conversation to go. And it definitely could have gone places. But ex's was not one of the options he would have chosen. "Absolutely not. Tony set us up. Thought it would be a good match." He strokes her cheek. "You are the only girl I have eyes for. Never doubt that."

"Alright."

"Now can I please have a kiss? I feel like I've been so distracted today. I promise to keep my hands to myself."

Natasha pecks him on the cheek before smiling down at the ground. "About that . . . I don't think we should put a time limit on it, like when it should or shouldn't happen. But maybe we should agree to give it a few more months. I just want to feel a bit steadier."

"I can do months," Clint tells her. "Whatever you need."

She presses up on her toes to catch his cheek with another kiss, this time leading a gentle trail towards his mouth. "You're good to me." Her lips pucker as she pulls away. "Was that really all this was about?"

"What?"

"The way you've been acting all day?"

He rolls his shoulders. "I guess. I mean, I was thinking about it. A lot. And I didn't know how to bring it up. Or what to say. What not to say. And I didn't want Tony saying something stupid until we'd at least talked about it." He's rambling. He knows.

"It's kind of sweet."

"Sweet's my middle name."

She laughs. "Liar. It's Francis."

Client feigns exasperation. "Who told you that?"

"Tony."

"What else has Stark outed me on?"

Natasha makes a show of wiggling her eyebrows. "Wouldn't you like to know."

Clint reaches out for her waist, only to find that they've reached the front doors of her building and with a quick flash of teeth she slips in between the double set of entry doors. She blows him a kiss from the other side, still teasing, and as much as Clint plays along, his gut sinks like a boat with a blown-out hull.

He hates this part. No matter how many times he walks her into the hulking shadow of the building, letting her hand go, knowing she's going back up to that apartment . . . it just never sits right, especially when he knows her spot on the couch is there. Safe and warm. And, god! Watching her disappear through those doors makes his fingers curl.

He pulls out his phone as he walks away, turning it from silent to vibrate, slipping it back in his pocket where it'll sit for the rest of the night, until later when Natasha texts to wish him sweet dreams before she goes to sleep and he'll exhale because he knows it's another day that Ivan's not the last thing on her mind before she closes her eyes.

"Clint!"

"Yo, Barton!"

Clint whips around as a van skids just left of his untied shoe lace. He looks up, voice caught in the back of his throat and then, "Jesus, shit, Tony!"

"Check your hearing aid then, grandma. We've only been yelling your name for like half a block."

"Funny," he says, rolling the side door open. "You gunna build me some bionic toes to replace the ones you just almost tore off?"

Tony contemplates. "You'd match Bucky. Bruce and I could go into business. Right, Steve? Your boy-toy could be a cover model for our designs."

Steve gives a vague sort of head nod, leaning out the window for a better view of the building. It's not exactly low-income, but there's something wildly unnerving about the joint, secluded at the back of a pot-holed parking lot, with street lights blown out around it and shoes tossed over telephone wires as the welcoming signage.

When Steve looks away, it's only to meet Clint's eyes in the side mirror. His face is pulled into a grim line and Clint shrugs. If there was something he could have done he would have already. He clears his throat. "Thought you guys headed home."

"Nah, we just drove really slow and stalkery behind you."

"Tony," Steve groans.

Tony flips his head over his shoulder. "Speaking of stalker."

The black SUV swerves out in front of them, ripping back onto the road, zero-to-sixty in four seconds, cutting off a line of traffic.

"Where's a cop when you need one?" Steve asks.

"Probably parked outside of Duncan's," Tony says. "Speaking of which, anyone for donuts?"

Clint makes a noise of agreement, watching the SUV peel down the street.

"Oh, I almost forgot," Tony says suddenly, reaching under the seat so fast that Steve reaches out on instinct to jerk the wheel back. Tony emerges before any real damage can be done. He tosses a box at Steve, who blinks owlishly at the black lettering before turning so red that Clint's worried he's having a heart attack.

"What the hell is this?" Steve whispers in a broken sort of plea in an octave Clint's never heard from him before.

Clint leans over the seat for a better view. "Oh, Jesus hell, Tony. What did I tell you?"


	13. Chapter 13

They make it through to the end of the semester without incidence (if you call Tony installing automated display boards and then subsequently knocking the power out to the diner for two days without incidence).

They still laugh about it, even weeks later: what is now fondly referred to as the great diner brawl.

At the time it hadn't been funny. Not really. There was a bunch of swearing, mainly from Tony as he zapped himself with enough electricity to leave red marks on his palms, promptly diving head first off the counter and into a nearby booth, thankfully empty.

Then there was Phil's face illuminated by a flashlight. Murderous as ever as he barked instructions about health and safety.

There was Sam scrapping charred slices of cheese coated bread off the grill by the light of his phone, glowering like a wounded puppy.

And then there was the seedy jerk who decided to cop a feel as Peggy was escorting customers to the door, to which Steve responded by throwing a well-placed punch that knocked two of the guy's teeth loose.

All in all the fight lasted about forty-five seconds, leaving three of the customers permanently banned and Clint with a black eye.

"I'm so sorry, man!" Steve said. "It was dark. I couldn't see who I was punching right there at the end."

"It's okay," Clint winced, adjusting the pack of peas held over his face. "Natasha will probably think I look badass."

Steve chuckled nervously. "Natasha's probably going to beat the crap out of me."

Clint grunted in response. "Where's Phil?"

"He and Sam are trying to fix the front door lock. Apparently running into the door with your face is enough to get the hinges unaligned." Peggy moved Clint's hand and the bag of frozen peas away from his face for inspection. "Swelling should go down in a day or so," she continued, patting the side of his face gently before giving Steve's arm a fond squeeze.

"So I get that this probably looks bad right now," Tony had said from his spot on the counter, finishing off the last of the pie that would inevitably go bad without the power. "But you have to admit, the boards look damn cool.

. . .

Clint's right about Natasha thinking he looks badass with his new purple shiner, courtesy of Steve's fist (the indent of the guy's knuckles are literally imprinted on his cheekbone).

The one thing he doesn't anticipate is just how nurturing it makes her. The warm touches and soft strokes against his skin are one thing, as is the adorable way her brow furrows a she inspects the ever changing colour of the bruise day after day, but Clint quickly realizes just how easy it is to convince her to do things while he's supposedly hurt. In all reality he's had worse (much worse), but he plays it off easily and Natasha indulges him.

It starts with stealing kisses. More kisses than usual. In places she wouldn't normally give them, like in the middle of the cafeteria (he pouts and she plants one on him right there at the table, prompting Tony to gag into his lunch) or sitting in the kitchen with everyone while Phil attempts to make grilled cheese. If she notices his sly smiles she doesn't comment.

But it's not just the ease of her affection he exploits, but how quick she is to jump to his whims. "Stay over for the Christmas break," he asks her one night while they're sitting in the van eating ice cream. It's warm inside, the heat cranked to the point the ice cream is melting faster than he can eat it, but he'd had a craving and with a pout and a bat of his eyes, Natasha had caved and joined him on his ten o'clock at night sweet tooth hunt.

"Clint—"

"My eye hurts, Natasha. It really does. I'll beg if you want me to, but it'll probably make it hurt worse."

"You're terrible, you know that." She looks down at her ice cream, biting at a smile.

"Please, Tash, it's the only thing I want this year. Well that and my own Tony-free room, but—"

"You make my life difficult Clint Barton. Did you know that?"

"O-kay," he mutters. He's become an expert pouter this last week.

Natasha sighs, putting her ice cream on the dash and unbuckling her seatbelt. She climbs across the front of the van and into his lap, prompting Clint to roll the seat back to avoid dumping the rest of his ice cream on her. She drums her fingers over his lips. "Don't look at me like that."

"Like what?"

"A wounded puppy. It's killing me." She strokes the hair that tufts out over his forehead, fingernails itching at the edge of his bruise. She tips his chin towards the light, eyes sad.

"Aw, Tash, you know I'm just teasing. You don't—"

She kisses him them, lips firm against his, head tipping to reach that much closer, noses brushing. She tastes sweet, like vanilla and chocolate and when she nips at his lower lip it makes him moan, ditching his ice cream in the cup holder so he can thread one hand up into her hair, the other clutching at the small of her back.

She gasps, pulling away, lips red and swollen.

Clint can feel his heart beat in his chest, right against his ribs. If she leans any closer she'll be able to feel it, too. Her hair is mussed around her face and he untangles his fingers to smooth it back.

She catches his hand in hers. "I didn't say yes to all those things because you were hurt, Clint. I said yes because you asked and I wanted to make you happy."

"I know," he says. "You're too smart to fall for the wounded puppy thing."

"Well, I admit, it did help somewhat."

"Tash, I don't want you to do things just because I ask, especially if you don't want to."

"But I do want to. That's how a relationship works I guess. You do things for the other person even if it's hard."

Clint swallows. "Are we talking about Ivan now?"

"Thanksgiving was nice," she admits. "But he doesn't know I spent the entire weekend with you. Christmas break is almost two weeks. I just don't know—"

"It's okay. We don't have to do it like Thanksgiving."

"No, I was going to say that I don't know what he's going to do in that place for two whole weeks by himself. But he can figure it out."

Clint can feel the grin spread up his face. It's so wide, splitting from ear to ear that it makes his eye throb, but he doesn't care. "So, was that a yes then? You're coming for the Coulson family Christmas?"

Natasha laughs. "If Phil will have me."

Clint twines a piece of her hair between his fingers. "He will. You make me so incredibly happy, you know that?" He kisses her again, this time soft and gentle, fingers skimming the skin on her neck. When she lifts her hand to hold his face he turns his head and kisses the inside of her wrist, something like a promise in the mark left over her pulse.

The next day Clint gets handed a brush and a bucket of soapy water by Phil and pointed firmly towards the van.

"That's what happens when you spill ice cream everywhere!" Tony yells after him. "Stop macking on Natasha in the front seat!"

Steve hides his face in a dishtowel, but Clint just smiles as he cleans away the sticky pile of vanilla that's congealed under the seat.

. . .

Natasha spends the entirety of the Christmas holidays at the diner, both day and night. It's so long in fact that she has to do laundry at their place—twice—and the domesticity of it gives Clint that same warm feeling he had that day they brushed their teeth together. Taking her lacy black underwear out of the dryer . . . that gives him a different kind of feeling altogether.

"You're cute when you blush," she says snatching them out of his hands and pecking his cheek.

"Yeah, well." He holds his hands up in defeat before stuffing them in his pockets. He could work with cute.

The first notable thing about the holidays (besides Natasha's underwear) is that Tony finishes Steve's bike, pulling a few all-nighters when he's not tweaking Bucky's arm.

And for that Tony definitely wins the best Christmas gift award, but Clint can't even fault him because Steve's grin is bigger than he's ever seen it and he actually hugs (HUGS! Jesus where's the camera?) Tony. Bucky's around by that point, too, spending most of his time at the diner, and he smiles fondly as Steve whips around corners, kicking up dirt, while Phil cringes with 911 on speed dial.

They all test it out on the trails behind the diner since the snow has decided to hold off this year. Freakily enough, the only one competent enough to handle the bike on anything resembling a road is Natasha. Clint squints beady eyes at her and adds it to his growing list of secret talents she possesses.

"Your girlfriend scares me," Tony whispers to him.

"That's because she could break your spindly little fingers," Bucky says dryly. His face is the definition of impassivity. "She'd probably smile while she did it, too."

Tony just shakes his head. "I am literally surrounded by people that want to kill me."

"Must be that Stark personality of yours."

"No puns, Barton. You know how Phil feels about puns."

"Why?" Clint protests as Natasha skids to a stop, swapping out turns with Bucky. "I'm so punny!"

. . .

Christmas isn't really about gifts, not in the diner, but Natasha manages to find a simple black tie with little red sports car motifs on it and Phil glows for days, wearing it proudly for the customers before he closes down the diner.

Most of the rest of the holidays are spent doing the attic renovation and testing out Bucky's new arm.

"You look like the terminator," Clint says as Bucky rotates his shoulder gingerly. "That's friggin' sick."

Bucky holds the arm with his good one, flexed at what would be the elbow.

"How does it feel?" Tony asks. "I can make adjustments as needed."

"It's strange," Bucky admits. "Having the weight again."

"Well, it'll take your muscles time to adjust. It'll feel like swinging around dead weight for a while."

The first time Bucky tries picking up a hammer he punches through a batch of old drywall without meaning too. The next time his metal fingers short circuit the wiring to the upstairs and it takes Tony and Bruce the better part of a day to get everything working again (Phil begs them to let him call an electrician. "I'm building body parts! I can handle some wires," Tony exclaims.)

The good thing about starting with demolition is that it doesn't matter how many holes Bucky puts in the wall. In fact, once the lights are functioning again, Tony and Bruce let Bucky go at it, getting used to the weight and the movements of the arm, filming the entire thing (in that name of science) as he knocks down walls.

Clint watches the video footage over Tony's shoulder one night, watching him cut out segments where the six of them would goof around. There's a clip of him kissing Natasha up against his new window sill and a segment of arm wrestling tests. There's a high five from Bucky's new arm that leaves Bruce wringing his hand out and footage of Steve attempting the moon walk.

All the extra footage goes into a file Tony labels Christmas _with_ the_Terminator.

For two days after that Tony and Bruce lock themselves away from everyone, apparently writing up the report portion of their project. They emerge every couple hours to tweak the arm or ask Bucky questions, filling out charts with data and complicated looking equations. Tony pops a microchip out of the back of the arm, plugging it into his computer and scales of green charted information pop up.

Otherwise they leave Bucky to adjust, and after some frustrating attempts, he figures out the right pressure to hold a paint brush with so he doesn't smash it back through the newly laid drywall.

When Phil and Sam emerge from their lunch run downstairs, carrying plates of sandwiches, they find the remnants of Bucky's new accomplishment: six frantically giggling, paint covered teenagers. Natasha even managed to get it in Clint's hair and she's got a nice handprint of his across her ass.

"Clint, if you didn't like the colour, you should have just said something," Phil teases. He places the plates of sandwiches down on the floor. "But no one goes anywhere until that dries. I will not have paint tracked through the house and the diner. So you might as well get comfortable."

The six of them collapse against the unfinished walls, laughing. Sam and Phil make their escape before Tony can launch a paint ball at them.

They eat in silence for a minute, then Tony looks at Bucky. "Dude, you know what this means?"

Bucky smiles, twisting his metal hand back and forth, brow wrinkling as he works the fingers into a fist. "I can punch holes in walls?"

"No, you can be in the band. Once you've figured out how not to crush the bass, of course. That's what started all of this in the first place."

Bucky barks a laugh, looking up under his tangle of hair. Upon realizing Tony's serious his dark eyes narrow, unsettled by the invitation. "Only if Natasha's in it," he says. "This was her idea. She wanted an excuse to see more of Cl—"

A paper plate goes flying past Bucky's face, skimming the tip of his nose.

"Well it's true," he mutters while Natasha pretends to be oblivious.

Clint feels a kind of warmth bubble up in his chest at the inadvertent omission. If only she knew then that she didn't need an excuse to see more of him.

"Fine then, you two can be the new Russian additions to the band. It'll give us that edge."

"What edge?" Steve asks.

"Bucky's got a metal arm, duh. And Natasha's hot. It sells itself."

Natasha shakes her head. "Oh, no, that's not something I need to be part of."

"Why not? Tony and the Crooners is a great band."

"That is not what we're called," Clint says, rolling his lips back over his teeth in disgust.

"Yeah, well you're girlfriend seems to think she's too cool for the band."

"I never said that. I just figured I'd leave the testosterone fueled sweat fest to the boys."

"Fat chance. What's wrong? Stage fright? Oh, are you one of those musically challenged people? You know, not everyone is musically inclined," Tony says. "That's why Thor does the heavy lifting and Bruce runs tech."

"Oh, she can sing," Bucky says as Natasha shoots him a death glare. "Plays piano, too."

"And why am I just finding out about this now," Clint demands. "We've been looking for Tony's replacement for forever."

"Hey! If anyone's getting replaced it's Steve."

"Why?"

"You have no rhythm and you play the drums. It's literally like the only requirement."

"Is this where the band disbands?" Natasha asks, a quirk to her mouth.

"I still can't believe you play piano. The grand is literally sitting in the dining room collecting dust," Clint says, gesturing to the stairs.

Natasha shrugs. "It's just some scales. My father used to play," she says, eyes pulling tight as if she's recalling it right then. "He would sit me on his lap and we would practice."

"You've never spoken of your father before," Clint says, taken aback at the thought. Of course Natasha had a father. Someone who wasn't Ivan. He'd just never thought about it. He knew her mom died before she came to the States. That's why she came. But somewhere along the line she must have had a dad.

Her smile is small and sad. "He died in a house fire when I was six. I don't remember much of him, but I remember that. He loved the piano."

Even Tony has the decency not to follow that up with some sarcastic remark.

Natasha gives a faint smile then. "That was a long time ago, though." Her smile turns wistful. "Another lifetime."

"Well, the offers open," Tony says in passing. "If you ever feel inclined."

Natasha smiles at that, nodding her head.

Supposedly satisfied that he hasn't mucked up a socially awkward situation, Tony jumps to his feet, dusting his hands against his pants. "Let's have some fun," he says. "We still have that one wall we need to rip down to frame out the bathroom."

"No, no," Bucky says. "I'm not punching anything else today. I'm exhausted."

Tony smirks, casting a look at Clint, before he paints a giant purple target on the grey drywall. "I was thinking more along the lines of target practice. We need to see the arm do some more fine motor."

Clint jumps to his feet. "Now you're talking."

. . .

It takes ten minutes for Clint to track down his new bow, his old compound, and a couple dozen arrows: some of them whittled wood he fletched last summer and others sleek fiberglass with red feathered tips.

Clint hauls out his bow, the metal cool under his hand and lines up half a dozen shots on the makeshift target.

Bucky whistles, impressed by the display, having never seen it before, and even Natasha leans eagerly around his back. Clint doesn't miss the way her eyes travel up the length of his arms and he makes a point of flexing each time he hits the target (which is every time) just to mess with her.

"Bet you can't split it," Toy challenges suddenly, leaving one wooden arrow in the center of the bullseye.

Clint waits for him to move and then raises his bow again. "Fine, but you're buying me knew arrows when I do."

"Deal."

The next arrow is a straight through and through, notching a path straight down the whittled arrow, leaving two chunks of wood on the floor.

Tony shakes his head. "That's impossible. Like it's actually not normal. Normal people can't do things like this."

"Normal people don't build robotic arms," Steve says.

"Yeah they do," Tony defends. "All the time. But that is inhuman. Like how do you even see? It's not even that bright in here."

"Eyes like a hawk," Natasha teases.

"Hawkeye," Clint groans. "Is that what you're going with?"

Natasha shrugs. "Hawkguy?"

"I want to see you make that shot without your perfect vision. One eye only," Tony demands.

"Isn't that dangerous," Steve questions.

"Come on, it's Clint. He'd probably hit it blind."

He does that, too, eventually, nailing all the trick shots like he's always been able to. Tony's up in arms.

"You don't have sufficient distraction," Natasha says eventually.

"Oh, really?" Clint says.

Natasha shrugs nonchalantly.

"No, I like where this is going," Tony says. "Continue."

"Fine, I like a challenge," Clint concedes. Then his face falls. "Clothes stay on," he murmurs when she's standing next to him.

She chuckles. "As if."

Satisfied, Clint lines up another shot. He takes the steadying breath, holds it for a count of four, and on the exhale primes for release. His finger is about to slip from the string when a warm breath brushes his ear. The sensation tickles his neck, and that's not what undoes him, but the fact that it's Natasha's breath, seemingly so innocent, slipping down his neck.

He has that same feeling he gets when they spar and when his fingers slip this time, so does the arrow. It imbeds itself right next to the bullseye, an inch away from the first.

"Aw, come on," Tony complains. "Some distraction. He's still in the red."

But Natasha just grins and when Clint meets her eyes, he knows she knows. It might not seem like a lot, but it's enough. Her lips quirk a little more, "Interesting," she says.

Then the lights spark and the power fails. Phil's voice carries up the stairs. "TONY!"

"Aw damn, you must have hit a wire on that last one," Tony mumbles.

"Again?" is all Phil says when he reaches them.

The rest of the renovation goes exceeding well; so does the rest of Bucky's test run. There's a few days in between where Tony and Bruce commandeer Bucky and the arm to make some minor adjustments.

The day Bucky picks up a pen and scribbles his name with his new hand Tony is glowing like a proud parent. He high fives Bruce. "We're going to smash this competition next month!"

Natasha watches Bucky like she might cry.

. . .

It's six days after Christmas, nine since they've gotten the water going in the new stand-up shower of Clint's almost finished bedroom (just needs a few coats of paint to cover the mess they made), when Phil piles them all into the van and drives them into the city to the lawyers office.

Clint's hand shakes as he signs his name on the bottom of the adoption paperwork, something he never thought he'd get to do in a million years. Tony and Steve have a similar kind of startled shock on their faces as the paperwork is whisked away. Just like that. Done.

Natasha takes of photo of the three of them and Phil outside the building with her phone.

It becomes Phil's new screensaver and Clint swears he wasn't crying and that it was just the reflection. He knows Natasha knows better, but she just nods her head and pats his arm.

January rolls in and he stays awake long enough on New Year's to kiss Natasha because she's fallen asleep on him. She startles from her spot on the couch, and Clint just snickers against her cheek. She responds by locking her arms around him like a vice and he wakes like that the next morning, scooting back to his couch before Phil can emerge and give him that stern I know it's not cold in here because I adjusted the thermostatlook.

Before Clint knows it, the end of the holidays are almost here and he keeps getting emails reminding him to buy his winter formal tickets. He'd almost forgotten about the dance altogether and that he'd been meaning to ask Natasha this entire time. If it wasn't for Steve asking him what he thought about him bringing Bucky (and outing himself to the entire school in the process) he might have let it slip his mind again in the midst of adoptions and renovations.

"Do it," Clint says immediately and if he's being honest maybe he expected something like this a long time ago from Steve.

"But what if—"

"Steve," he says. "This changes nothing about you. Not how you throw a football. Not how you captain the team. If people have a problem with it, they're not worth your time."

He stiffens at that and for the first time Clint realizes how hard it must be for Steve to step outside the safety of the diner and his family, admitting to the rest of the town that their all-American football hero isn't exactly who they think he is (he doesn't even like football all that much).

"Do you want to spend the rest of your life pretending to be someone you're not?" Clint asks. "So what if you like to draw? So what if you like Bucky? Bring him to the dance. People can deal. Or they won't. None of that is your problem. All that matters is that you do what makes you happy."

Steve's lips twist into a smile. "That's very Phil of you to say."

"Yeah, well, people looked at me weird when they found out about me and Natasha. Crazy Russian transfer chick, you know. But they don't know me; not really. And they don't know her. And I don't need them too. I'm happy. She's happy. That's all I care about."

Steve nods. "So, did you ask Natasha yet?"

"I'm going to today."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah, I'm kind of out of time."

"What if she says no?"

Clint smirks. "Then I don't have to put on that monkey suit in the back of my closet."

Steve chuckles. "You really, really like her, huh?"

"It's more than that, man. I'd dress like Phil every day if that's what she wanted."

"He does know how to accessorize a plain black suit like nobody's business."

Clint nods. "Even his socks are suave."

As it turns out, Clint does ask Natasha. And she sort of answers him. It starts as a visible question on her face as she struggles to unpin herself from the sparring mat. Clint just lets his weight go, holding her there, halting the sparring session and she huffs. "Are you serious?"

"Do I not look serious? Cause I meant it?"

"Well . . ." she splutters. "You can't just spring that sort of thing on a girl when she's gross and sweaty and—"

"I happen to think you look really hot right now."

"Mmm hmm," she murmurs. "I stand by what I said."

"Fine, but you can't avoid me forever, Romanoff."

She just laughs and whispers, "Watch me," before wrapping her thighs around his waist, flipping them, and escaping to the stairs for a shower.

He tries again two days later, the very last day of holidays. He's already bought the tickets so he's hoping she says yes this time.

"Is this a good time to ask you a question?"

Natasha sips her water and smirks. They're sitting in an empty booth at the tail end of the lunch rush. "I suppose."

"Will you go to the dance with me? And you can't even use the I don't dance excuse on me because I know you probably dance better than everyone there."

"I don't think I have anything to wear," Natasha answers honestly.

Clint's confused and simply purses his lips and stares at her. "So was that a yes? Or—"

"Supposing I can find a dress."

"Well darling, that should be the easy part." Natasha looks over her shoulder to find Peggy leaning against the back of the booth, paper in hand, waiting to seat the new customers that just walked in. Peggy with her perfectly primped hair and painted red lips. This walking forties icon. She clicks her red nails along the top of the booth before gesturing to Clint. "Getting this one cleaned up, well, that might prove to be a problem."

"Hey," Clint protests, but Peggy shoots him a teasing smile before turning back to Natasha.

"Seriously, though. I do have quite the wardrobe. You're welcome to anything you like."

"Aw, Peggy, I couldn't do that."

"I insist. My good friend's just moved in and apparently I have to clear out room in the closet for her things as well. Aw well, tis the life of a student. You want my advice? Strike it rich before college. If not you'll be broke for the next ten years."

And with that Clint secures his date to the dance, Natasha secures a dress, and they both end up with concerns about student debt.


	14. Chapter 14

The robotics competition is the weekend before the dance, so while most of the rest of the school is prepping for hair appointments, Clint, Natasha, and the guys are busy hauling demonstration boards and a rather disgruntled Bucky to the convention center in the middle of the city.

"It's just for a few hours," Steve says, squeezing Bucky's hand (his good one, Clint notes, cause the metal one is squeezed into a fist). "I'll be there the whole time."

"If people touch me I'm going to snap arms."

"Maybe we should have sought out someone less antisocial," Bruce mutters to Tony, jumping out of the van, and Natasha snorts, patting his shoulder.

"What are you talking about?" Tony deadpans. "He even brushed his hair for today."

Bruce rolls his eyes.

"But seriously," Tony says. "He'll be fine. He's got that broody, somebody needs to love me thing going on. People like that. It reminds them of puppies."

"I am not a puppy, Stark!"

"Whatever you say, Iron Fist."

Bruce groans into his hands. "I can't even with you."

"Uh, guys, a little help," Clint says suddenly as the back of the van tries to throw up on him. He holds the trunk down with his hip, preventing the impending explosion. As he does he catches sight of that same black SUV from that day by Natasha's building. It does a round of the parking lot before peeling off.

"You've seen it too?"

Clint flips around.

Natasha's watching the end of the street where the SUV disappears. Her lips are caught between her teeth. "It's been parked on and off outside Ivan's building for the past week."

"Yeah, guess I can't chalk it up to a confused tourist anymore," Clint says, a strange panic fluttering in his chest. "Come on; let's get this stuff out of here."

The inside of the convention center looks like Tony's brain threw up and he and Bruce are literally seizing with excited genius energy as they take their wrist bands and are ushered towards an empty booth by a strung out looking techie. It takes every ounce of Clint's patience to get them to set-up their booth before they take off into the crowds of people, exploring massive displays of tech and gear and things that make strange popping noises.

"Whatever the hell that is," Clint says, pointing across the carpeted aisle, "we're not going near it. That is some Star Wars shit."

Natasha agrees with an easy nod and makes herself scarce inside the booth with Bucky and Steve.

Clint pretends he's a bouncer and stands outside the display—arms crossed— wearing a pair of dark shades, scoping out the scene and trying to tell the nerds from the too-smart-to-function types. From what he can tell Tony and Bruce fall somewhere in between. Or maybe they're just on their own scale all together.

At eleven o'clock the judges start making rounds and Clint climbs to the top of the staircase above their display, waiting beside Natasha while Tony and Bruce do their thing. Bucky looks slightly less uncomfortable once they start giving him things to do with the arm, and Steve stands in the crowd, watching like a proud father.

Phil is literally the proud father, and if you didn't know any better, you'd think Tony or Bruce had paparazzi.

There's an expected amount of oohing and awing and Bucky visibly stiffens under prodding hands.

Bruce answers questions and Tony lets the charm fly and Clint watches the easy way he wins the crowd.

Then the judges are gone, bustling off to the next booth. From where Clint's waiting it looks like everything went well. There are smiles and bro hugging and manly shoulder slaps. When the crowd disperses Clint and Natasha make their way back down to the booth. Steve and Bucky have disappeared somewhere to follow up the promise of food and Clint's about to suggest they do the same when an old man with a white beard and spectacled glasses walks into the booth.

"Hello, boys," he says, catching Tony and Bruce off guard with handshakes. "Hank Pym."

"The Hank Pym?" Bruce stutters out, backing into the table with enough force he topples their poster boards. "Of Pym Technologies?"

"The one and only. I'd like to talk business," he says. "Do you have a minute?"

"Of course we do," Tony answers immediately, but Bruce grabs his hand, yanking him off to the side.

"We need representation," Bruce whispers. "He's like in charge of half the tech the army uses. This is serious stuff."

"Calm down," Tony mutters, turning on the charm again with his too straight smile.

"I can't," Bruce pushes his glasses back up his nose. "I can't."

"If you don't breathe soon you're going to pass out. Or get all hangry. No rage monsters today."

"What do we do?"

Tony nods towards the crowd still mulling outside their booth. He snags Phil's shoulder spinning him away from the onlookers. "Phil Coulson," he says, steering him with an arm strung over his shoulders, "meet Doctor Hank Pym."

"Is this your legal?" Hank asks, admiring Phil's suit with a gruff nod.

Tony smirks at that. "Worse. My dad."

They walk away, Bruce trailing behind, looking one shade off of fainting, and Clint feels Natasha squeeze his hand. "I wish we had a camera so we could have shown Phil his face when Tony called him dad," she says.

"Tony can just hack the security footage later. We are not leaving here without that photo."

Natasha raises her brows, considering the possibility, and then considers it again as she realizes it's not outside the realm of his capabilities. She sighs, "It's weird being around so much genius."

"How so?"

"Don't you feel like you're putting on a show? Being here?"

Clint shrugs. "I'm mainly here for the food." He holds up a couple fingers. "And support. Besides, you blend right in: woman of too any talents to keep track of."

Natasha smiles wryly as he wraps his arm around her waist. "I feel like I've infiltrated the world's biggest nerd gathering."

"Well come on then, partner, let's go steal some state secrets, missile launch codes, the recipe to Phil's tartar sauce, and then we can call for an evacuation."

"Do we blow the place when we leave?" Natasha teases. "Or is it an in and out kind of op?'

"Depends," Clint says. "Let's see how good the punch is first. If it's bad we blow this popsicle stand and get pizza."

Natasha leans back to look him in the eye. "Seriously? Your secret mission ends with pizza?"

"Yeah, and a date with the femme fatale; doesn't yours?"

Natasha laughs. "It does now. You do fit the uncanny hero type."

"Uncanny?" Clint wraps his other arm around her waist, clasping his hands against her stomach, pulling her close enough he can rest his head on the back of her shoulder. "What's uncanny about me? I'm an expert marksman. I could shoot the bad guys in the eye, from up on a rooftop."

"Oh, please, you'd probably fall off said rooftop," she says and he can hear the smile in her voice.

"Lies. All lies. What kind of partner are you?"

"The kind that would probably be very good at first aid."

Clint considers that. "Do I least fall in style? Like, with a cool costume and everything?"

Natasha hums, "You do look quite good in purple."

"I could do purple," Clint agrees.

"And for me?" Natasha asks and Clint grins, spinning her in his arms and running his eyes along her body, all teasing and bug-eyed. Natasha has to swat his arms to get him to stop.

"Something black I think. And tight."

"You're such a boy," she scoffs.

"Like catwoman's suit, but cooler."

"Cooler?"

"Like more badass. With gadgets."

She rolls her eyes. "Now I'm batman?"

"No, but you can borrow some of his tech."

"So if you've got the bow, what do I get?"

"A gun, obviously. But you don't need it because you can use that thigh master choke hold thing you do with your legs."

Natasha snorts.

"No I'm serious. It could kill people. I fear for my life when we spar."

"You've never complained before."

"Because what a way to go."

Natasha rolls her eyes again and pushes at him, biting her lip, but Clint holds fast to her waist, laughing into her shoulder.

"I'm not sure this partnership is going to last. I feel like I'd want to spend most of my time killing you."

"That's just your badassery talking. But underneath it you're falling for me."

"Uh huh," she mutters, brushing his hair away from his eyes.

"And then there's the bad guys and high stakes and secret missions with explosions."

"And so what do we do once we stumble out of the wreckage, alive against every rational explanation of why we should not have survived such an event?"

"Come on, Tash, the good guys never die."

"Who said I wanted to be a good guy? Maybe I'll be a villain."

"Fine, but I'll convert you."

"With what?"

"My rugged good looks. My truly spectacular humour. Or maybe you'll just be so amazed at my bow skills that you'll ditch you're evil organization for mine."

"And then what?"

"We rendezvous at one of our secret bolt-holes in some exotic country—like, uh, Budapest or some shit, and then . . . order a pizza."

She barks a laugh. "Sounds like you've got the makings of a novel there."

"Nah, has to be a movie, too much action."

"Sounds more like a romantic-comedy to me."

"How? Did you miss the part where we blow stuff up?"

"So you're telling me you don't get the girl in the end?'

"Oh, I most definitely get the girl in the end." He busses his lips against her cheek.

"Did I hear something about pizza?"

"Yeah," Clint says, turning back to find Tony sauntering up, a skip to his step, "and stealing state secrets."

Tony eyes them funny. "I don't know how you two function on your own."

"It takes a special skill-set," Clint concedes. "So, did that old dude offer you a job or what?"

"Sort of. Wants to talk about applications for the tech we made Bucky's arm out of. Also wants to pay for us to go to school. Bruce is gunna go for it. I don't need it, obviously, with the inheritance, but—" He trails off, spying a tall, strawberry blonde weave through the crowd.

Clint looks over his shoulder and with a quick grin in Tony's direction, pulls Natasha off to the side, not quite out of ear shot, because there's too many people milling about to really call it privacy, but Clint at least pretends he's not totally eavesdropping. Natasha on the other hand has no problem blatantly watching the exchange and it might have been funny if the way she stared wasn't so tactical, like she was absorbing information to be used in all manner of ways at a later date.

Sometimes he finds her completely terrifying, until she turns her eyes up and gives him a shadowy grin, pecking him on the lips and everything melts into a contented sort of bliss. Then in true Natasha fashion, she whispers, "I have money on this."

Clint chuckles as Pepper draws near. Of course Natasha had gotten caught up in the Tony versus cute college student betting pool.

"Hello, Tony." There's a shy kind of smile and a pair of thin fingers tuck stray strawberry hair behind her ear.

"Pepper!" he exclaims, rubbing his hands along his jeans, and oh my, is that Tony Stark getting nervous? "Wow, you're here? Why are you here?"

"School's just down the street. Thought I'd check out what all the fuss was about."

"Well, was it fuss-worthy?" Tony asks cheekily.

She chuckles. "I was very impressed by your display. I'm sure you've changed that boy's life."

Tony opens his mouth, stuttering to a close again, like he'd never realized that part of it. That Bucky wasn't just some cover model, but an actual recipient of a tool that could change his whole life. Make it easier.

And that's why Clint likes Pepper. She makes Tony speechless.

"I'm running late for class now, but I just wanted to congratulate you," she says, then she grins. "I see you've caught the eye of Mr. Pym. I met his daughter in school last semester. I'll be interning with the company this summer."

"Good company," Tony says, giving a nonchalant shrug, having finally recovered. "It'll look good on a resume."

She smiles again. "That's what I hear."

She offers him her hand and when she pulls away there's a business card there. Virginia Potts it reads. Her name. Her entire name. When Tony looks up again she's already disappeared into the crowd. He almost goes after her, but then he turns away, a triumphant look on his face. "I'm going to offer her a job one day."

"Working for Pym?" Clint says.

"Nah, Pym and I, we're going to be business partners. Pepper's gunna work for Stark Industries."

"That's a little ambitious."

Tony stares at the display boards, covered in schematics of Bucky's new arm technology and Clint can almost see the gears in his head grind.

"Only the best," he murmurs, then he's off, darting through the crowd, grabbing Bruce by the shirt collar and whispering in his ear.

"So, did your bet pan off?" Clint mumbles to Natasha.

"Quite nicely," she admits, patting his hand in hers. "Steve owes me a whole bunch of money."

"This is why I never bet against you. How did you know Pepper would be here today?"

"She's a very serious person. Seeing Tony make an effort to be a little more serious about his future is a step in the right direction for them. And I might have mentioned it last time I saw her in the diner."

Clint smirks. "You think he's got a shot with her?"

"In a few years maybe. If he's willing to wait."

"You've got this relationship thing all ironed out, huh? Considering a career in matchmaking?"

Natasha looks at him seriously. "No. I just know what it looks like now."

"What?"

"When you're serious about someone. I'm serious about you."

"No kidding," Clint says.

She laughs against his chest, but it's low and breathy as she tucks her face next to his shoulder, arms loose around his waist.

"Tash?"

"Hmm?"

"You know I'm serious about you, too? I don't need a few years to figure that out." He feels her smile against his shirt.

"I know."


	15. Chapter 15

The day of the dance feels like it's never going to end, like he's gunna be trapped in this nightmare of post-dance get readiness until A) the dance is over or B) he's blinded by the amount of ways Tony's tried to part his hair. He doesn't even think there's that much to it (for a guy at least). Comb hair. Gel. Mouthwash. Suit. What's so complicated?

"Why does no one have matching socks?" Tony shouts, rifling through Clint's drawers. He moves on to Steve's room.

"Hey!" Steve shouts a moment later, "I was going to wear those!"

Tony emerges, grinning and hopping on one foot as he slips into a pair of black socks. He wiggles his toes, looking thoughtful, "Not even one hole. Why does Steve get the nice socks?"

"Who the hell's gunna be looking at your socks," Clint wonders.

"It's the principle of the thing."

"Sure, sure," Clint mutters, straightening the collar of his suit.

"Did you get Natasha flowers?"

Clint shakes his head. "Should I have?"

Tony makes a face. "You know that little flower thingy? It goes on her wrist?"

"I thought those things were for prom?"

"Prom, winter-formal. What's the difference? She'll look nice. You look like you. You have to put a flower on it."

"One. Don't do your Beyoncé impression. Two, you call Natasha it again and I'll knock you out. For real."

"Touché. But seriously, nothing?"

Clint throws his hands up. "I didn't know this was a thing?"

"Settle down. I did."

Clint turns to find Phil standing in the door way beside Steve, holding a small plastic box. He hands it to Clint. Inside is a purple corsage made up of a single purple rose. It's beautiful. "Purple?" he asks, though, a tilt to his lips.

"They can dye flowers now."

"It's perfect, Phil. Thank-you."

"You still chaperoning tonight?" Tony asks.

Phil crosses his arms. "Yes, Nick needs a hand. And then I can keep my eyes on you."

"Me?" Tony splutters, recovering with one of his signature cocky smirks. "Yeah, well, I do have some sweet dance moves."

Clint and Steve share an eye roll.

"Now that that's settled," Tony says. He rounds on Clint, two off-white ties in his hand (They're the same, Tony!). "Okay, Hawkeye, which one?"

Clint grabs at his hair, resisting the urge to throw himself down on his bed. Ugh, if he has to listen to Tony and Steve debate tie colour one more time he's going to string them—

"Well what colour are you wearing?" Tony asks.

"Purple," Clint says. Easy. Simple. Done.

Tony makes a face. "Why?"

"Natasha likes purple." Again, simple.

"Well that would certainly make things easier," Steve says, leaning against their door jam, a red and blue tie in either fist.

"What are you complaining about?" Tony says. "Just call Bucky and ask him what colour he's wearing."

"Bucky doesn't believe in ties."

Clint snorts. "Knew I liked that guy for a reason."

Steve groans. "You're not helping."

"Yeah, well—"

"Jesus, Barton, what are you wearing on your feet?" Tony asks suddenly

Clint looks down at the shredded converse. "Aw, shit."

Phil rolls his eyes. "Come on," he says, dragging Clint down the hall.

Five minutes later Clint's been introduced to a section of Phil's closet he's never seen before and he grins stupidly because of it. "You have a shoe closet, Phil. You know that right?"

"Lucky for you."

"Steve, look at this," Clint calls as Phil unearths a sleek pair of dark grey lace ups that look decent with his pants.

Steve's eyes bug out a little but he wisely chooses not to comment. Instead he asks, "How's Natasha getting here?"

"Peggy and Angie are dropping her off. They've been primping all day."

"Sounds painful," Steve says.

Clint laughs and pulls up the picture of the eyelash curler Natasha had texted him earlier to show Steve. "That's what I said."

At exactly eight thirty a dark blue car rolls into the parking lot and Clint opens the back door, offering a hand to Natasha.

Peggy whistles at them and Angie waves as they pull away, leaving Clint to lead Natasha inside.

He spins as soon as they're in the garage and he feels his throat tighten immediately because he couldn't really tell before, outside in the dark, but now he can, and wow, he threads a finger under his collar because Natasha looks . . . well, Jesus, he'd been expecting a lot because it's Natasha, but holy hell he's probably sweating.

And she's radiant. The dress is black, with thin straps. It hugs everything in a way that makes Clint's insides flip.

Her hair is dark and red, longer now than all those months ago when she cut it, fanned out down her back in short waves. Her lips are like blood, similar to the way Peggy wears it, but against the pale silk of Natasha's skin it's so vivid. She looks like something out of some nineteen-twenties noir film.

His pulse pounds in his throat, eyes caught on her neckline.

It's not plunging because they'd never let her inside looking like that, but he's definitely able to exercise that very good imagination he has.

"You look . . . uh, just wow."

She chuckles and dusts off his shoulder. "You look pretty suave yourself." She pecks his cheek, wiping away the smudge of her lipstick with her thumb. "Nice shoes by the way."

Clint grins at that. "Did you know Phil has a shoe closet?"

. . .

The gym is done up in silver and gold streamers with balloons tacked to the wall. As far as SHIELD goes it's as tacky as ever, but like always, there's a less than stellar DJ and a bowl of punch that someone's going to attempt to spike (probably Rumlow), making Clint grin. As far as high school dances go, well . . .

Clint's admittedly not a huge people person. Like, he likes people, and he likes playing in the band, but being surrounded by hundreds of sweaty teenagers is not his ideal Saturday night.

But being at the dance with Natasha is an entirely different thing. Being here with her is nice in a way he finds hard to describe, mostly because he's never done this kind of thing before, but also because he has this overwhelming need to touch her. A hand on her lower back or around her waist. A hand on her arm, or tucked into hers. Soft, caressing touches that light his skin on fire and send her eyes dancing in darkness under the twinkle lights.

For all the emotion bubbling in his gut, Clint's glad it's not just him. Natasha seems to be having just as much trouble keeping her hands to herself and she's taken to tugging at his tie whenever he strays too far away once the music starts.

Tony is the biggest nerd out of them all and he does some funky chicken thing that clears out a spot on the dance floor just for them.

Thor and Jane go twirling by, his big elbows threatening to knock teeth out, and once Darcy's date lets it slip that she has a taser in her clutch, there's literally no interference.

Steve holds Bucky's hand and manages not to blush when people look at him. To add to everyone else's insult, Tony grabs Bruce's hand and they literally go waltzing through the crowd. Clint thinks it's probably the nicest thing Tony has ever done for Steve, topping even the bike at Christmas.

And with all that chaos going on, he gets to hold Natasha real close when the music slows and she kisses his throat as they sway in slow circles.

"So does my dancing hold up?" Clint asks.

"Not half bad, Barton." Her voice is so warm when she says it that he expects he could have stepped on her toes several times and she still would have thought it was perfect.

. . .

When the crowd gets thick and Tony's hijacked the DJ's booth (tie now strung around his forehead), Clint uses the opportunity to pull Natasha along the far wall and they escape the gym for a few minutes of quiet, walking the halls and catching their breath.

Natasha squeezes his hand when they pass a girl's bathroom and disappears inside. Clint leans against a locker, hands in his pockets, eyes a little starry after the spot where he's just lost sight of her, waiting. When a shadow appears he straightens, pushing off the locker, only to find it's not Natasha and Clint groans internally.

"Hey there." The words are followed by intense amount of giggling.

"Bobbi?" he says, because she definitely doesn't sound like herself. She was always sort of clingy, but giggly? No.

She sidles up beside him, half leaning against him, fingers tugging on the hem of his jacket and then his tie. "Don't you clean up nice, Clint?"

"Yeah, thanks," he says, extricating himself from her grip. He smooths the tie back down his front. "Look, I'm just waiting—"

"Oh, me too!" She smiles daintily at him, like he might get distracted by the bat of her eyelashes, and then she's leaning forward and his hands fly out to stop her, head tilted out of reach.

"Bobbi, stop. I . . . you're drunk."

"You smell nice," she giggles, her breath against his chin. It's acidic and tangy and so, so wrong.

Clint panics. "I'll call you a cab. You should go sleep this off."

"I don't want a cab, silly." She pokes the center of his chest, giggling again.

There are more footsteps and Clint's grip on her shoulders loosens as he takes a flying step away from Bobbi, prompting her to stumble against him, hanging on like some kind of sloth. "Natasha," he says, and aw hell does he ever know what this looks like. His heart skips two beats and rams into his throat.

Her head tips to the side, watching, examining and the beat she takes feels like eternity. Then, without a word to him, she walks up beside them. "Come on, Bobbi. Let's get you that cab."

They wait inside the front doors for the cab to arrive. It's the longest twenty minutes of Clint's life. Natasha doesn't say anything and aw, man he's starting to feel like an idiot. He should have walked away . . . or . . . or done something.

He resists the urge to plant his forehead against the window by stopping Bobbi from running out the doors into the cold. She looks at him with too wide, glassy eyes, then giggles, squeezes his cheek, and calls him cute. Clint wants to tell her that she's not helping his case with Natasha, but eventually Bobbi gives up on running away and starts to carry on a running kind of commentary that's highly annoying but more or less harmless and by the end of it she seems to think her and Natasha are swell pals. Then she huffs and slides down against the wall, staring out the window, the alcohol having lost some of its buzz.

Clint takes a chance and slides down against the opposite wall next to Natasha, still unable to read her. He swallows, afraid she might push him away before he can explain, but all she does is lean her head against his shoulder and sigh.

It sounds content. At least that's what Clint's telling himself. And that's how he ends up spending half the dance, stuck in a four by six entrance cubby with both his current girlfriend and his ex.

The cab pulls up shortly after and Clint helps Bobbi walk along the cobbled ground in her heels (and he thought his shoes were ridiculous).

Natasha stands outside beside him; she must be freezing. And they watch the driver pull away.

"How did you know?" Clint asks when she threads her hand into his, squeezing to let him know everything's alright.

"I trust you," she says. "Plus I heard her talking inside the stall next to mine. She's two drinks past tipsy."

Clint sighs: a little relief, a little something else. "She'll regret that in the morning."

"She'd have regretted it more if she did kiss you."

He looks down at Natasha, surprise turning his features. "Oh, were you going to defend my honour?"

She grins coyly at him. "Something like that, yeah."

His eyes flicker down to her lips, open, inviting. But then she shivers and he moves to shrug out of his jacket. Her hand on his wrist stops him.

"Clint?" she says, tongue darting out over her lips.

"Yeah?"

Her eyes are dark, hidden by shadow and lengths of thick lashes. "Let's go back to the diner."

"Had enough of the dance already?"

Her smile is one he's never seen before as she tugs him towards the parking lot. "Something like that."

. . .

He barely gets the door to his room—newly minted in the attic—opened and closed again before she's kissing him. There's something different about these kisses. They're different in a way—heavy almost, needy—and Clint gasps, pulling away as Natasha's hands move to untuck his shirt from his pants.

"I thought you said months? As in like several," he says as she slithers out of her dress with a flick of the zipper. He staggers into the side of his bed, collapsing on top and she climbs on top of him in nothing but her bra and underwear. A black lacy set that sends his eyes bugging out of his head.

"This doesn't have to count," she says. "This stays above the belt. I just want to feel you against my skin." She presses her lips back to his and the adrenaline fuels him on.

He traces the outside of her bra with his fingertips as she presses her lips near his ear.

"Take it off," she requests.

"Tash?"

She takes his hands, and presses them against her, squeezing. She hums when he gets the idea and her hands fall away, trailing down the exposed expanse of her stomach.

Clint marvels at the mounds in his hands, at the weight. He gives another gentle squeeze and her hips drag along his stomach.

"Take it off," she says again, voice husky and rough. This time he doesn't hesitate, exposing her flushed skin, nipples darkened against the pale porcelain of her chest.

She's like something out of one of his dreams as she stretches above him, entirely feline, and he wonders how this is his life. He feels himself twitch in response and the desire to reach for her is as overwhelming as his desire to reach into his pants and help himself along.

She tilts forward, seemingly making the decision for him, breasts brushing against his chest until she's close enough to tempt him. He lowers his head, sucking one of her nipples between his teeth.

The skin puckers under his tongue and her hips settle over his.

She moans, a breathy kind of sound that brushes the top of his head, and his hips jerk again.

He mouths at her some more before moving towards the other peak, nipping gently with his teeth in a way that leaves her grinding down against him. He doesn't know when he lost sense of himself, but he suddenly realizes how tight he's be holding her hips and releases her, tongue leaving a strip between her breasts, up towards her collar bone and neck.

He presses opened mouthed kisses wherever he can reach, hands tangling in her hair.

"You're gorgeous," he says whenever his lips leave skin, gently rocking up against her.

"Mmm," she moans when his mouth leaves her. He looks up to find her eyes closed, teeth worrying her bottom lip. Her chest rises with a sort of breathlessness Clint's only seen in her after a sparring session and he edges forward enough to reach her lips.

Her hands snake behind his back, under his shirt and press hot against his skin. Her touch is searing and it takes everything in Clint's power to untangle her hands and stop . . . whatever this is because pretty soon it's going to be something else entirely.

He closes his eyes and breathes the way he does with his bow. In. Count of four. Out. Count of four. Release.

When he thinks he's got his voice back under control, he says, "That was really hot." Then he moves to shift her off him. "But now I need to go deal with some things." He nods to the bulge in his pants when Natasha clamps her legs around him.

"Wait, we could help each other," she says and it takes him a moment to realize what she's saying because having his girlfriend writhe half naked in his lap is enough to short circuit all his senses. She guides his hand towards her center, settling it over her panties. The pressure is enough to make her bite her lip.

"Tasha," he growls, feeling them soaked through as he tries to make the word a question.

"It's been over two months since we had that conversation, Clint. And we don't have to rush into everything tonight."

"Are you . . . are you're sure?"

She rocks against his hand, so much bigger than hers. He cups her tighter and she groans. "I'm sure about this."

Her fingers guide him, tracing a circular rhythm through the black lace. He follows it and soon she's mewling on top of him, grinding and panting, clinging to him like he's air and she's drowning. It's the single most erotic thing he's ever seen in his life and it takes every ounce of his self-control not to explode in his pants as she bears down on his hand, hips rutting. Finally her fingernails dig into his shoulder and her mouth falls open, the sound of release so, so sweet as she comes undone on top of him.

She shudders as she comes through it, batting his hand away when the sensations become too much and it's almost mesmerizing to watch. He thinks he could get lost in the myriad of faces and angles and sounds she makes.

When he thinks she's recovered enough to slump over him, she surprises him by reaching back through his fly and squeezing his length. He gives a short cry and almost comes undone right there.

"It's not going to take much," he warns her as she settles over his thighs, freeing his erection completely.

She smiles down at him, breasts tight and glistening from earlier, pale skin heaving. This is definitely like something out of one of his dreams now, and they haven't even really done it yet. His hips give a perfunctory jerk as she drags her hand down his length, circling him with just the right amount of pressure.

His head falls back into the pillow and he grunts out her name as her other hand comes down to follow the first, a kind of never-ending torture. Natasha shuffles back further and bends to press a kiss against his hip and the closeness mixed with the brush of her lips is enough when he's already this hard and he comes with a few uncoordinated jerks in her hand, crying out words he doesn't understand in the face of a sudden, intense pleasure.

His breath comes in long winded gasps as the white hot pressure in his brain fades. "That was." She smiles against his cheek, chuckling sweetly against his skin because he's floundering for words. "Not exactly above the belt?"

"Yeah," she says wryly. "Guess not."

"Are you okay?" he asks, pushing the hair out of her eyes. It's wild and loose, tucked around her face.

"Better than okay." She kisses him then, languid and slow, with all the pent up passion she can muster, resting against his chest and tapping out a soothing kind of rhythm with her fingertips.

He'd be content to stay like this forever, he decides, stroking at her back. To feel like this, wrapped up in just her.

"We should probably shower before the others get back," she says eventually, stretching as she sits up, giving him one more show as she slides along the length of his body.

He nods stupidly, distracted by her tease, then reaches for her again. She squeals as he wraps himself around her, tucking her between himself and the mattress. He kisses her nose. Then her cheeks, peppering her until she giggles. "You can have the one downstairs. The lock actually works now and Peggy left girly smelling things in there."

Natasha chuckles a bit, patting his chest and he lets her up, a crazy kind of grin on his face as she goes searching through her overnight bag for a shirt. "You're good to me."

She saunters out of the room, dressed enough to reach the bathroom downstairs, blowing him a kiss.

Clint smiles while he strips his bed, getting new sheets from the closet. He smiles for the rest of the night actually. And when he comes down from his shower, finding Natasha at the kitchen table with the guys (Tony with his tie still wrapped around his forehead), deep in a poker game of Tony's invention (Bruce once had to shave an eyebrow off after losing), he can't help but feel like this is what he wants it to be like always. He can't imagine her not being there anymore, not when she fits so perfectly.

Phil comes up behind him, a tray of hot chocolate in hand. "Grab the chips?" he says to Clint gesturing over her shoulder at the counter.

Clint does and Thor shoves over to make room for him beside Natasha. She presses a kiss to his cheek and though it's completely chaste, it makes him blush. He clears his throat. "So, you got lured into Tony's poker, huh?"

"Yeah, and she's kicking my ass," Tony declares, throwing down his cards.

Natasha grins like a happily fed cat as she neatly drops her cards in a line. "He owes me thirty-five dollars, and a pack of gum."

"And he now has to shave his hair into a mohawk before spring," Bruce adds, tallying a rather complicated looking chart.

"You're girlfriend's pure evil, Barton. I don't like it."

"You just don't like that her genius competes with your genius."

"Tony, if you shave your head before we take the Christmas card photo for next year, you will know my wrath like never before," Phil says as he finally sheds his suit jacket for the day.

Thor's laughter drowns out all the rest and Clint spends the rest of the night watching Natasha amass her winnings, which grow to include seven slices of pie and Tony's first born.

"This game is rigged," Tony finally declares. "I'm going to bed."

"Bed sounds like a good idea," Phil says. "For everyone. Thor you'll have to take the blow-up and stick it on Steve's floor if you're staying."

. . .

Natasha's dropped off late Sunday afternoon and she hasn't been able to stop smiling from the way Clint kissed her in the lobby just minutes ago.

She touches her lips gently, a laugh caught behind her tongue as she climbs the stairs to her room, dropping her bag with a sigh of relief as soon as she's through the door.

The sigh quickly becomes a gasp as the shadows move and Ivan steps into view.

His walk is slow around her room. Careless in a way. Then he slows, picking up a paper laid out carefully over the window sill. It's the picture of her and Clint that Steve drew Thanksgiving weekend. The one where Clint's kissing her cheek and she's blushing furiously with a wide smile on her face.

"What's this?" Ivan asks, voice tight.

"Nothing," she says immediately, turning to unpack her things.

He takes her by the elbow though, refusing the brush off. "I take care of you. House you. Feed you. And this American boy is all you can think about?"

"He's just a friend," she says, arm going numb where Ivan's fingers dig into her bones.

"Don't lie to me, Nataska." Then he back hands her and it's so sharp and fast that Natasha doesn't have time to make a sound. She fumbles her hand over the hot, red mound on her cheek, somewhat in shock. He's never left marks so visible on her, not where others (who aren't looking for them) will see. Even Ivan has some measure of self-preservation. "You think I don't know this is where you spend all your time? That when you disappear for days he is not the one you're with?"

He grabs her wrist where her hand still lingers over her cheek, fingers crushing her bones together and she cries out afraid he might break them. Again she senses his carelessness in the action and it terrifies her. More than anything else Ivan has ever made her fear. The disregard for consequence means there's something else going on. Something bad. Maybe that would explain his mood lately.

"You will stop seeing this boy."

Natasha swallows hard, jaw set and she feels the prick of tears at the back of her eyes.

"What is it? Do you love him?" Ivan spits the words at her. "Love is for children."

Again she doesn't respond, just glares every hateful thing she's ever felt back at him, but the silence is telling enough.

Ivan wrenches her hand back just enough that she moves towards him to alleviate the pain. "The things I do to keep you fed, they're dangerous things, Nataska. So if you love him, you will let him go, or else this boy will find himself in the middle of a war he is not prepared for."

"Is that a threat?" she asks, voice tangled with emotion. Her face burns and her fingers twitch, wanting to lash out at him.

"A warning."

"You want to hurt him?"

"It will not be by my hand. What kind of monster do you think I am, Nataska?" He flips her hair over her shoulder. It's just long enough to thread the bottom of her shoulder blade. Ivan leans in, until his breath is stark against her ear. "But he cannot have what is mine."

He leaves her, blood cold, with tears on her cheeks.

When Clint texts that night she doesn't respond.

And when they become more urgent she turns her phone off completely.

That won't be enough. She knows. He's so stubborn. But she told him from the very beginning. She did. And if the only way to protect him is to push him away then she'll have to do it. Break him. Even if it breaks her.


	16. Chapter 16

Clint wanders down the stairs half an hour earlier than usual for a school day (Tony's still stumbling around in his pajamas). He's staring at his phone screen so he almost doesn't notice Phil blow by him until he's sequestered behind the door to his office.

Raising a brow, Clint pushes into the diner, saluting Sam as he joins Steve at the counter, swiping a piece of toast.

"Why is Phil in a mood?"

Steve shrugs, swallowing a mouthful of cheerios. "The Pastrami order still didn't come in. They keep trying to buy him off with that weird meat that has all those bits in it."

"Ugh, you mean like those chunks of olives and stuff?"

Steve nods.

"I'd be pissed, too." He clears his throat. "You haven't heard from Natasha at all have you?"

Steve shakes his head. "Why?"

"She hasn't responded to my texts from last night."

Steve carries his bowl to the sink and runs it under some water. "Let's head out early and see if she's at school."

"Tony's not ready yet."

"He can walk. Or catch a ride with Phil."

Clint smirks. "That'll just make his day."

Steve shrugs. "It'll teach him not to primp so much."

. . .

Natasha keeps pulling the sleeve of her shirt down over her wrist to hide the ugly purple bruises that have shown up there over night, but it keeps riding up her arm, so she puts her coat back on instead. There's not a lot she can do about her face, though it doesn't look as bad as it did last night.

That's when Clint finds her, inspecting her cheek in the tiny mirror taped to the inside of her locker.

"Morning, pretty girl," he drawls and her heart stutters a bit. "You want to tell me why the radio silence—"

He whips around her other side, having caught sight of her cheek in the mirror. "Natasha, your face!" He reaches for her, hand locking around her wrist and she hisses through her teeth.

"Clint, just stop, okay!"

He pulls his hands up, like surrender, eyes wide. "Okay, something's up. You just need to tell me so we can fix it. I know it's Ivan. You can't even tell me he didn't do this to you."

He's angry, his voice rising to something she's never heard before and she resists the urge to fold into his arms, holding the door of her locker for support. She has to. There's no choice. "No, just leave me alone. I don't need you to fix everything for me."

Clint looks as if she's just slapped him and in some ways she thinks that might have hurt less. She waits for him to erupt. To yell or scream or stamp his feet, but his voice is deceptively calm when it comes out. "Why do you always do that?"

"Do what?"

"Start that," he waves his hands at her and she flinches, "that you don't need anyone crap?"

He steps towards her then because he saw the flinch as much as she felt it. "Tash," he whispers.

"Stop," she says, voice shaking, taking a step away. "I don't need you to help me."

"I'm not trying to. I'm just—is it so wrong that I want to?"

"I don't need you to," she says again and the lie sours on her tongue. She feels sick. Sick and terrible and the unshed tears behind her eyes make her throat thick.

"Why?"

"I don't need anyone's help. I don't need yours. I can handle this myself, Clint."

"I think you do. I think you're just too stubborn to accept what people offer."

She scoffs at him, like he's some idiotic child and it probably makes his blood boil.

"What?" he demands, voice rising again.

"You think you know me?" Natasha says, driving one more nail into him, because this is a lie too. "You think you know anything about me? I'm not like you."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing."

"No, go ahead. Say it. You're not like me. I'm an orphan. I live with the fucking ex-guidance counselor and a bunch of other kids who got shit on the end of a stick in the family department. I get it. You're too good for that."

"You're putting words in my mouth. I never said that."

"Then what are you getting at here, because I know you, Natasha? I might not know everything, but I know you."

She closes her locker, slams it really, and the sound rings through her teeth.

"Hey!" Clint calls as she starts to walk away.

He cuts her off half-way down the hall.

"What do you want, Clint?"

"Why are you being like this?"

"Why are you? What don't you understand about I don't want your help? And your sorry little spiel isn't going to guilt me into some epic revelation if that's what you were hoping. Lots of people suck. Lots of people end up with crap for families whether they want them or not, so the poor little orphan boy isn't going to fly with me. You're not an orphan anymore and Phil's a good man. You're lucky to have him."

"I know that. I never said he wasn't."

"Then just be happy with your life and stop trying to fix mine."

"Hey," he says, softer, more gentle. "I was just trying to help, you know, be a good boyfriend or whatever. I'm sorry if your Russian blood is too thick to handle that."

She goes rigid, something touching a nerve there and she doesn't sound like herself when she finally speaks. "I know what help looks like, Clint. And I've seen enough of it to know I'm better off on my own."

"N'tasha," he whispers, reaching for her hand. When his hand, rough and calloused, so big around hers, eclipses her wrist in a gentle tug, she feels the dam break a little and has to swallow the hiccup down her throat.

She turns back to him, looking over her shoulder.

Her eyes burn with the weight behind her eyes.

Clint's looking at her with that mix of sympathy and uncertainty that she hates, like he's trying to decide whether he wants to run with her, or hug her. Opposed to either, he just squeezes her wrist in gentle reassurance.

"Help doesn't look the same way for me as it has for you."

"What are you—"

She pulls her wrist out of his grasp and rolls up her sleeve. There are the bruises from last night but also a series of faded white, patchy burn marks fleshed out against her pale skin. They're almost gone now, and he's probably never noticed before, but in the hall light, under her direction, he can see them all. "Lighters," she said. "These are from the year my mom lost her job and we had to move in with her friends. This is what happened when they got too high to remember that a six year old doesn't know how to roll joints or light cigarettes. When they were too high to function like normal people."

She drops her sleeve and yanks on her shirt, spinning to reveal a scar on her back. "This is from when I was twelve. My mom got involved with some heavy shit. With some bad people. They were always stoned. Always high. I was coming home from school one day and the guy we rented the place from jumped me with a switch blade in some drunken stupor. Didn't know who I was. Passed out as soon as the blade stuck. My mom barely pulled herself out of the abyss long enough to get me to the hospital."

"N'tasha—"

"No, you didn't know, Clint, because I don't tell people. I don't want pity and I don't want help. Help is pain. It's being hungry and cold and so tired but so afraid to go to sleep for fear of what I'll wake up to, with shit stuck in my arms or bottles at the foot of my bed. Not all the people you reach out to turn out to be like Phil."

"I know that, Natasha. Jesus, of anyone I know."

"Then you should get this."

He grabs the arm of her jacket. "Not everyone turns out to be like those people either. You should get that."

She shifts away. "I can't take that chance anymore."

"I'm not going to hurt you, Tasha. Never."

"I can't take that chance, either."

"Why?"

"Because love means nothing. Don't you get that? People die, they go away, they leave. And it always hurts."

"I'm not going to leave you."

"You don't know that." She gives a short, humorless laugh. "Maybe Phil'll get sick of me hanging out on the couch one day and send me away."

"Never," he growls again.

"Easy, Barton. That's life."

"Well you can't live the whole thing being afraid to love."

"Love's for children, Clint."

"We are children."

"I'm not. Not anymore." She is no good for him. She told him this. She did. She tried.

So this is how she keeps him safe. She walks away.

. . .

She returns home early, leaving Clint sulking against his locker, miserable and confused and alone.

She hates herself.

When she arrives, Ivan's in the kitchen, rubbing up against some blond bimbo. She's yelling at him in Russian, something about money and being handsy and not getting any if there's no money. Natasha slinks across the room, hoping to escape upstairs before he notices.

She hears the slap as she rounds the first landing.

Ivan calls half-heartedly after the blond as she stalks out the front door. Ivan follows her, hands on his hips. His head tips and Natasha's heart sinks.

He looks right at her shoes and then up the stairs.

"You're early."

"Class finished."

"Come down here."

"I have homework."

"Nataska."

She cringes at the Russian name and turns back down the stairs, walking deliberately slow.

She can smell the alcohol on him in hard, liquored waves, like ice.

His hands trail up her arms when she reaches him. "I miss you when you're at school."

"You're drunk."

"Do you miss me?"

"Uncle Ivan . . ."

His heads bends towards her face and she leans away, pushes against his chest.

"Nataska," he growls.

"Don't call me that."

"Why? Too good for the Russian now, prancing around with that American boy?"

"He isn't anything," she says.

"That's right. He isn't. I'm the one who takes care of you. It's me." He grabs her arm, hauling her close. "You're so pretty, Nataska." His hand runs down her side, dropping to her ass, squeezing with thick fingers.

Natasha flinches and wrenches her arm away, knocking her fist against his face hard enough to snap his head around.

She bolts before Ivan has enough time to gain his bearings. She hears the thundering steps as she reaches the second floor.

Her bedroom door slams closed just as he reaches the top of the stairs, lunging for her. She hammers the lock in and braces her back against it, feeling every blow Ivan lands against the door. "Nataska!" he rages and she wonders how long he'll go on. She braces her feet against the wall of the closet, pegging herself in.

She sits like that until it gets dark.

For a while she can hear him picking at the doorknob.

She grabs the chair from the corner of the room and props it under the knob, then sits on it.

Her heart hammers in her chest the entire night.

For a while she thinks about calling Clint.

But she told him she didn't need help.

When daylight finally streams through her window, Natasha's eyes are heavy.

She thinks she heard Ivan leave earlier, but she's not sure and fear has paralyzed her. He should have slept off his drunkenness enough to go to work and that either means he's forgotten about her or that he hasn't and he could still be waiting for her in the house.

Her best guess is that he's gone to work. He still needs to pay the rent. He needs the money.

But she can't bring herself to open the door.

She can't even move.

At eight oh five exactly her phone rings. It's Clint.

She accepts the call and puts the phone to her ear.

"You're late," he says. He sounds kind of relieved, like he'd been waiting on her and her absence had worried him. Maybe he'd been right to worry about her after yesterday. Maybe she's being an idiot not to let him in when he so clearly wants to be let in and she so desperately wants him to be.

But she can't lose him.

Her hand shakes.

"Natasha? You there? You okay?"

She doesn't know what to do. She doesn't know— "Can you come over?" she whispers into the phone, her voice dry from the night.

Clint must recognize the panic in her voice because he says to give him fifteen minutes and then he hangs up the phone, even though school's already started.

There's a knock on her bedroom door thirteen minutes and fifty two seconds later. She's leaning against the chair, barring the door and actually jumps when he says her name.

"It's me."

She gets to her feet, limbs a shaky mess. With numb fingers she drags the chair away from the door and unlocks the knob, pulling it open slowly, eyes on the stairwell before she allows herself to breathe and look at Clint.

His head is tipped in concern as he looks from her to the chair to the footprints on the wall that are now forever faded against the paint where she leveraged herself last night.

"Are you okay?" he asks, the words so gentle she almost breaks down.

Instead she launches herself into his arms.

. . .

It's quite unexpected after yesterday but he catches her still and wraps his arms around her, his hands splayed flat against her back.

Her hands snake under his arms and find purchase over his shoulders.

"Are you hurt?"

She shakes her head and buries her nose against his arm.

She breathes him in for a minute before pulling away slightly.

"Tash," he says. "We have to tell someone."

"I have nowhere else to go, Clint," she says to him.

"Anywhere is better than here."

"You know that's not true."

He sighs.

"I have to shower," she says. "Get ready for school. Will you wait for me?"

"Yeah. Of course."

He sits down on the top step as she disappears into the bathroom. She leaves the door cracked so she can see him in the mirror.

He tells himself not to look, but when he hears the water running he sneaks a peek and the silhouette he sees makes his mouth go dry. He turns back and counts the slices in the wall, the perfect shape for a knife, like someone's made a habit of throwing them.

This squashes his runaway thoughts about Natasha covered in nothing but water.

When she's done she sits on her bed, dressed in black yoga pants and a loose green sweater that hangs off one shoulder. It matches her eyes and makes her hair that much more vibrant.

Clint leans against the door frame, watching her pull the water from her curls with a towel.

She stands, eyes downcast as she pads across the room towards him.

"I'm sorry about yesterday," he says.

She shakes her head. "Don't. It's my fault. I said those things on purpose, to hurt you. Oh, Clint, I didn't mean then . . ." her voice trembles, "I was trying to push you away."

"Why?"

"I don't want to lose you. Ivan wants . . ." She bites her lip.

Her reaches for her, pulling her close. "Wants what?"

"He's made threats."

"Against me?"

She nods. "I can't be attached to you."

"What if I'm already attached to you? What's he gunna say then? I told you that you weren't getting rid me of me, and I meant it, Tash."

She looks up under her lashes and her eyes lock with his.

Then her lips do and before he can register that she's kissing him, he's got his hands on her hips, holding her closer.

It's not the frenzied meeting of lips he'd imagined after yesterday, but slow and gentle, and so much better.

Her lips drag up against his before closing with a gentle smack. She does this several times, pressing her lips together on the edge of his and it's slow and sensual and his heart beats at the base of his throat.

Her lips part again and he feels as they wrap around his a little more and he parts his lips enough to give her purchase on something. Her mouth opens a little more and soon he can feel the hot rush of air from inside her mouth, minty and warm and her tongue darts out experimentally to prod his and then his hands are on her face, thumbs brushing her cheeks and his head dips and her arms wrap around his neck.

When they pull apart, leaning against the opposite wall from the door, Clint is breathing so hard his chest rises to meet hers, her breasts pushing against him with tantalizing pressure.

All he can stare at are her kiss swollen lips though, red and firm and parted as she catches her breath.

Her fingers play with the hair at the base of his neck, her nails sending sharp tremors down his back.

"You shouldn't have gotten attached," she says, furrowing her brow, contemplating everything.

"Too late," Clint says before he takes her face in his hands and kisses her again. "And I don't want to help you, Natasha. I want to save you."

They don't go to school that day. Instead Clint sneaks her into the diner and up to his room without Phil noticing either of them playing hooky. He'll find out later, of course; Fury's already on that shit. And he'll have to explain. Everything. But for now he's content just to let her snuggle into his side. Let his arms weave around her, the pads of his fingers pressing into the delicate warmth of her curved skin.

She lies on his bed and tells him about how Bucky really lost his arm. Protecting her.

She tells him all the dark, scary things from her past and he tells her his. About why children have every right to be afraid of clowns. And about a man they called Trick Shot who took his brother down a dangerous path and Clint lost him forever.

He tells her how he never thought he'd find someone who understood. Until he met her.

He tells her and she cries against his skin.

Then later, while the world leaves them in their attic together, he buries himself inside her. First his fingers, thrusting and taking until she comes apart in his hands, whispering his name like a prayer. And after, when she's kissed every part of him, left her soul on every expanse of his skin, she guides his length inside her, moaning with the stretch of him. He presses into her until she shatters again, crying out in some kind of delirium.

"I love you," she says against his skin in the warm afterglow, limbs tangled as the weightlessness abates. And as his mind drifts above, lost in a kind of overwhelming pleasure, he hears her whisper into his neck, "Save me."


	17. Chapter 17

It's been several weeks since that day in the attic, since Natasha broke down in his arms and asked Clint to save her. And it feels like things have changed, like some deeper spark has been ignited between them. There's a depth to the way they communicate now, with looks and eyebrow raises and sometimes, when she's feeling especially torn, entire conversations that pass in utter silence.

Their silent conversations unnerve him sometimes: to think he can be so close to someone, read them so well that not even words need to be exchanged takes him back to a place etched out in his childhood: one with a cocky smirked boy who never knew when to say no to a fight. Barney wasn't exactly a model older brother, and he'd pretty much abandoned Clint, but before that, when they were younger, when Clint was smaller, Barney had been there, glaring hard, fiery eyes at a man who claimed to be their father. A man who pretended to love them with broken beer bottles and bruised knuckles. Clint had seen that fire burn through Barney, could understand the words that went unspoken, and the dangerous promise in his stare: he could remember a rainstorm, so thick it blurred the edges of their property, the shadow of Barney slinking through the mud towards the truck, sinking to his knees next to the wheel wells.

He remembers their parents leaving the next morning; then later, the police officers muttering words like shot breaks and wrapped around a treewhile they looked over at two newly orphaned boys with sad eyes.

And it was a silent, reassuring smile by the grave side that told Clint exactly what Barney had done.

It's that same intensity Clint reads in Natasha now. Silence is telling. Silence speaks louder than anything. But he won't be like his brother; he won't abandon her with the demons in her head or the one that haunts her steps. He swears it to her in a promise that's stronger than anything he's ever vowed in his life and it makes her tremble when he hugs her.

In the meantime things have gotten both better and worse. It's better because there are no secrets now. She tells him if Ivan's hurt her. If he's put even a finger on her.

It's worse because he hardly lets her leave, her spot on the couch a permanent fixture as of late. Phil doesn't ask why, just puts clean sheets out every couple days. But when Clint does let her leave to go home and get new clothes or collect belongings he's flighty and panicked.

He clings to his phone like a life-line, sometimes spending the night in a permanent kind of phone conversation with her, whether they're actually talking at all, or just doing homework.

It's worse because Ivan's become unpredictable. They ever know when he's coming or going anymore. Sometimes he's gone for days at a time and the relief is tangible in her eyes, but then he'll return in a mood and Clint keeps Natasha out until he's certain that Ivan will be passed out drunk for the night.

It's worse because they're so, so close. But Natasha won't leave just yet, won't risk it because she doesn't know where she'll end up if she tells someone about Ivan.

"I don't want to lose you," she tells him. "One more year. Then I'll be eighteen. Graduated. I can move out. Go to school. And no one needs to know any different. Ivan can go on being an asshole and we can be together. There will be no one there to split us up. No Ivan, no CPS."

It sounds nice to her. It's what she wants, what she whispers to him in the dark when she stays over.

But Clint Barton has spent his life in years, one bleeding into the next, like each good for nothing foster home. So when she asks for one more year it's never seemed like such a long time. And he tells her so.

"Please, Clint."

His throat is tight and his heart aches. He pulls her close, body threaded against hers and he sighs because he still doesn't know how to save her. Not the way they both want.

. . .

It's three days later, while Clint's working a shift he picked up for Tony (the guy's doing some serious press in regards to Bucky's arm tech) when he hears his name muttered and looks up to find Peggy pointing a man in his direction.

Clint pauses by a newly emptied booth, putting his tray down on the table, and his blood runs cold behind his ears. The man moves with purpose, a forward tilt to his steps. Trench coat. Shades. And a bulge at his ankle that is either a gun or an unfortunate-shaped tumour. Either Clint's about to become a mob hit or Phil really is a secret agent and he's about to be inducted into the organization.

For a moment he considers picking up the dirty knife on the tray and slipping it into his sleeve, and then he remembers the little girl in the booth behind him and decides against it. Whatever's about to happen, well, Phil's always said this is a family restaurant.

"Clint Barton?"

"Who's asking?"

The man gives him an almost non-existent smile, crooked and thready, like he could have just as easily been sneering. "Don't be a punk, kid, you're like fourteen."

"Almost eighteen, ass-hat."

"Uh huh, sit."

Clint stiffens at that. "It's my booth, you sit." The man does and Clint just stares at him for a moment: his too big shades and the shadows that hide his face. "You want something to drink?"

"Doubt you're serving the kind of drink I need."

Clint absorbs that and then, casting a glance over his shoulder quickly, asks, "Who the hell are you?"

"Sit, kid, we need to have a chat. And I'd really like it if this whole god damn gossipy town wasn't in on it."

This time Clint does move, sliding onto the bench across from the stranger. He's got a jittery feeling in the pit of his gut and it makes his legs bounce.

With a deep seeded cough that speaks of too many cigarettes, the man says, "My name is Wade Wilson, I'm with the NYPD. I have some questions for you."

"You got a badge?"

"This ain't a movie, kid."

"Good," Clint says. "You're shit at playing a cop."

That earns him a laugh. The man flips his jacket open enough for Clint to glimpse the badge, along with the word DETECTIVE. Then he removes his glasses.

The first thing Clint notes is that he's actually fairly young—early thirties at the latest. The second is that his face is a mess of scars, like Edward Scissorhands himself gave him a haircut. Clint knows the truth is probably less Hollywood and more like IED's blowing up in the Middle East. "Shit," Clint whispers. "What do you want?"

Detective Wilson pulls a folded up paper from his inner pocket, spreading out the creases over a gnarled looking man, strung out on some bad shit. "Do you know this man?"

Shit again. Clint nods.

"Have you seen Ivan Korticova?"

"Not for a few months," Clint says honestly. He hasn't actually laid eyes on the guy because he's made it his mission to stay as far away from that apartment as possible. To keep Natasha as far away from it as possible.

"We understand his niece has been staying with him. You know her?"

"Natasha? Yeah, is she in trouble?"

"We're trying to track down Mr. Korticova. Any information she can provide would be especially helpful."

"Yeah, but is she in trouble?" Clint asks again.

"Look, kid—"

"Clint."

"Clint . . . Ivan Korticova is not the kind of guy you want to be friends with. And he's in the wind."

"So I've gathered."

The Detective glances out the window, eyes unfocused. "When people run, it means they've got something to hide. And when they have something to hide they get desperate . . . do stupid things." He moves too fast, standing and slipping his shades back on before he hands Clint a card, NYPD stamped on the front, his name etched on the back beside blocked numbers. "You hear anything, and I mean anything, you call me at this number, got it?"

"Yeah," Clint mutters, "I got it."

He watches Detective Wilson leave. The man climbs into a familiar black SUV, dark windows catching the sun and Clint's stomach churns.

This whole time?

. . .

Clint manages to work for another ten minutes without incident, then the anxiety is so nagging that he ducks behind the counter on the pretense of putting in an order and whips out his phone. Natasha's the first number in his contacts.

He forgoes text and hits the call button.

She answers on the second ring.

"Natasha? Where are you right now?"

"At Ivan's. I just got back from kickboxing."

"Look, there was some cop here looking for—"

"Clint," she says, and he catches the shiver in her tone. Then she pauses just long enough for his worry to manifest as heart palpitations. "Something's wrong. The place is a wreck. Ivan's cleared out all his stuff. He—"

The next moments of his life are filled with Natasha's screams, and he swears he'll hear that sound in every nightmare he ever has.

"Shit. Shit. Shit!" The line goes dead and Clint doesn't waste time. He hurdles the counter, rips the apron over his head and plows out the back door towards the garage. Steve and Peggy call after him and Sam's head pokes out of the kitchen as he passes at a run.

Phil's crossing the diner at a speed walk (the man does not run), but Clint's rounded the back hall and snagged the keys before his words can register.

Clint's already in the van, starting the ignition when Steve climbs into the passenger seat, huffing and out of breath.

"Steve—"

"Just go," he says, and Clint reverses without looking and guns it onto the street. Clint chucks Steve his phone and the business card he fishes out of his pocket.

"Call the number on the back!"

Steve does. "It's going to the police," he hisses. "What the hell kind of trouble are you in?"

The no seatbelt sign starts flashing on the dash, the red ding echoing in time with Clint's heart. "It's not me," he grits out, slamming his foot down harder on the gas. "It's Natasha."

. . .

It's funny how you can hear your own heart beat in the silence that comes before pain.

Natasha's never been a fan of pain, not because it hurts, but because it always comes at a cost. She lost her mother to pain, to needle jabs and lighter burns and glass shards. She lost her father to pain, too: a burning, smoking poison that ate away at her lungs and fed too hot flames as it burned her childhood home to the ground.

And now, as Ivan presses the knife to her temple, flat-faced, twisting it through her hair, hips trapping her against the wall, she knows this pain will also have a cost.

"You're so pretty, Nataska." His hand's at her throat, heel firm against her windpipe, but his fingers stroke along her jaw line. "Even more so than your mother was."

"Ivan, don't. Please."

He's strung out on something. Eyes sunken and red. Wild in the way they roam her. Needy.

He kisses her then. It's hard and sour and she feels her veins slither under her skin.

"Stop!" she cries, ramming her palms against the center of his chest.

He stumbles away from her, breathless, one hand clutching at his sternum. Then, with a flash of anger, he surges forward, hand locking around the back of her neck, fingers threaded into her hair as he yanks her head back.

She winces, teeth gritted against the pain. Her hand reaches up against his to relieve some of the pressure on her skull.

"You have been nothing but trouble since I brought you here."

"Why?" she grunts, hammering her knee against his gut. "Because I don't deal with your bullshit?"

He staggers, but his grip on her remains and they both groan.

When he recovers this time it's with a sharp slap, the edge of the blade catching her chin and she feels the blood trickle down her neck.

"What? Finished screaming, have you?"

She feels her muscles tighten and bucks forward but Ivan chuckles.

She bites her lip, brows furrowed as the knife returns to her sight. It's cold against her throat when she swallows, like a splash of water, but sharp in its movement, more like the first flakes of a blizzard, cutting and cold as they blow.

Ivan chuckles low in his throat. "You're making very poor decisions, Nataska."

. . .

Clint drives like a maniac, flying down the side streets and ignoring the yellow children at play signs.

Steve grips the door as they hit the speed bumps doing seventy.

"You're going to get us pulled over!"

Yeah, probably, he thinks. He doesn't care.

Clint parks the van in the first available spot in front of the building and doesn't even bother to take the keys out of the ignition or lock the doors. He just books it towards the entrance, Steve's shadow stretching beside him.

"How do we get in?" Steve asks, wrenching on the glass entry door. "We don't have a key."

Well, shit. Clint spins on his heel, stopping when he spies the fake evergreen in the corner: so much for ambiance.

Clint picks up the plant, the pot significantly heavier than it looks. With a well-placed toss it shatters the door. He reaches through and turns the lock, ripping the door open and hurtling his way to the stairs, the sounds of Steve's heavy steps an echo behind him.

Steve's ultimately faster; he reaches the apartment door first. "Locked," he says.

Clint rips the glass lighting sconce from the wall, looking inside. He drops it and it shatters against the floor. "She keeps a spare key out here somewhere," he says. "Just in case."

He grabs the next one, on the other side of the door, and there, nestled next to the light bulb, is a small gold key.

. . .

"You come or—"

"I won't leave with you," Natasha says, the venom strong in her voice despite Ivan's knuckles against her throat.

"You cannot stay here, Nataska. Don't be foolish."

She's struggling to breathe now and her words are choked. "The first chance I get . . . I'll run. You're better off just to leave me."

"Here? Where the authorities will come to question you? And I'm just supposed to believe you'll keep your mouth shut? I don't think so, girl."

He holds her just under the chin, fingers working against her jaw. It makes her mouth fall open, but the words stall.

"There can be no witnesses," he whispers.

Then his hand moves before she can stop it. Metal rips flesh between bone and her hands fall and curl near her hip, surrounding his hand and the handle. The blade is sunk deep inside her and she can taste the tang of bile at the back of her throat.

Then there's blood. So much blood and it terrifies her more than the pain. It strangles her scream into nothingness and her fingers slide against Ivan's hand as he wrenches the knife out of her.

Her eyes flicker over his, her knees buckling her back against the wall. There's sharp panic there. Like he knows what he's done, beyond the surprise of his actions. And he knows he can't leave her like this. A witness. Bloody and broken, with ammunition and knowledge to bring him down. She knows this like she knows she needs to breathe. Like she knows she loves Clint. These are the things she thinks as she knows she's about to die.

In preparation Ivan does not smile, but he shakes his head, like it's a waste, and with determination he strikes out again, his hand coming down against her flesh once more.

. . .

Clint hears her scream. It's not a surprised scream. Or even an I'm afraid scream. No, this is pain. It's a gut-wrenching scream that makes Clint feel sick as he hurdles the stairs three at a time towards her bedroom, reaching the landing.

"Clint!" Steve shouts after him, still hovering by the front door.

He hears her again, the cry, the pain. This time is cuts off with a whimper. And that's when Clint goes barreling through her door and smashes into Ivan hard enough to send them both flying.

Natasha coughs, spluttering on her own breath, and Clint's eyes go wide. He knocks his fist into Ivan's mouth as hard as he can.

"Natasha!" Clint screams, rolling off of Ivan and crawling across the room where she's slumped like a doll.

There's red, red everywhere. It's soaked the carpet and stains his jeans as he clambers through it.

His hands shake as he moves her shirt up, looking for the source. Stop the bleeding, he thinks. That's all you have to do.

He almost doesn't hear the garbled Russian curses as Ivan climbs to his feet, knife in hand, looking murderous.

Clint turns long enough to catch the silver glint of the knife, his body hovering in front of Natasha as his fists ball.

Natasha groans.

"Do you still love him now, Nataska?" Ivan growls. "Are you willing to die for him? How about you, boy, will you die with her?"

The knife flashes again as Clint brings his arms up in front of his head, but instead of the sharp slice of pain, Clint's knocked backwards by a body. It's Steve. He kicks out, his boot catching Ivan's wrist and the knife goes flying.

Ivan launches himself, but Steve's ready and catches him in some sort of football hold, pushing his weight forward until Ivan's stumbling back.

He crashes against the wall, getting his breath before he moves again, mouthed dropped in a ragged cry.

Steve kicks out towards the window, knocking Natasha's mirror into his hands. The old, filigreed frame creaks as it swings through the air and then bursts at the corners as Steve brings the entire thing down on Ivan's head, glass shattering into a million shards of crystal.

Ivan crumples and Steve backs away, glass popping beneath his boots.

Clint allows himself to gape for one moment, then he rips his sweater off and crushes it into Natasha's hip, putting pressure on the wound. His arms are shaking so hard that Steve kneels by his side and adds his weight.

Natasha's eyes flutter and Clint gasps. "Stay awake, Tash. Hey, look at me, right here."

Sirens fill the parking lot below as Clint's pulse pounds in his temple.

Somewhere a door bangs open and heavy boots invade.

Thuds echo off the stairs and a stream of blue and black fill his peripheral as he watches Natasha's chest rise and fall.

"That's it, Tasha. Just keep breathing." He stutters over the words, biting his cheek so hard it bleeds, as a team of paramedics usher him out of the way. "You're not allowed to die on me. Not now. Natasha, I . . . I love you too much."


	18. Chapter 18

The thing with emergencies is that everybody shows up. Fire, police, paramedic. People. Strangers.

And everybody thinks that have the know-how and the authority.

It's a complete and utter cluster-fuck is what it is.

And Clint just wants to grab Steve and get the hell out of there.

Instead he's questioned by three different rookie police officers before detective Wilson finally reaches him and shoos them away on coffee runs or whatever it is that unnecessary law enforcement do when they're pretending to be useful. Clint's just been cleared by the paramedics, Natasha's disappeared on some gurney in the back of an ambulance, sirens wailing, and Steve's being carted away, forced against his will into the back of another ambulance.

"I'm fine," he insists, struggling.

"You're a minor," the woman protests, all but dragging him by his collar. "You don't get to decide that." She's small, with white blonde hair spiked on the top of her head and piercing blue eyes. But the way she looks at Steve, holding a blood pressure cuff like a threat, makes all six-foot-three of him collapse onto the gurney.

She's got the cuff around his arm and is inspecting his hands critically before he can do so much as wince.

Clint takes stock of the blood first, most likely from when Steve shattered the mirror, but also maybe from knocking Ivan's teeth in a bit. A firm hand on his shoulder brings Clint's focus back to the detective. To the sirens and chaos and shrill radio beeps.

"Let's do this enroute," Detective Wilson says suddenly, steering Clint towards Steve.

Clint looks up, confused.

"I need statements from both of you and I presume you want to be with your brother?"

Clint nods and climbs into the ambulance behind a glowering Steve. He's pretty sure people on the street are taking photos. They're going to be news tomorrow. Clint can just see it now, the words football star and drug bust ending up on the same page. He collapses into the seat beside Steve, head dropping back against the metal railing. Phil is going to murder them.

The paramedic, Carol according to her nametag, smacks her hand against the inner wall of the ambulance. "Good to go," she yells as the doors are slammed shut behind them and they lurch onto the road.

They drive without sirens, but Carol makes enough of her own noise, rummaging through drawers and containers for supplies. Satisfied, she presses mountains of gauze to the back of Steve's hands, tutting as he moves about to explain the scene with Ivan and the mirror to detective Wilson.

The man simply nods his head, scribbling into a black book. "And is that when you hit him?"

"I didn't mean to that hard? He's not . . . he's not dead is he?" Steve sounds odd as he says it.

"No. Bastard's still ticking. But even if he was dead, son, it sounds like a cut and dry case of self defense. You just saved that girl's life. Both of you." The detective clears his throat. "Injury report. How's it looking over there?"

"There will be heavy bruising. Minor lacerations." Carol looks up at Steve. "We'll be picking glass out of you for days," she comments.

He shrugs. "Doesn't even hurt that much."

"That's the adrenaline talking. Give it an hour."

Clint's story is much the same, expect for the parts that come before. The parts that start when he met Natasha, a girl shrouded in darkness. A girl who never smiled. He tells the detective about the bruises. About Ivan and the drugs and the abuse. He talks until his voice is raw and he realizes he's maybe said too much. Maybe more than he had been asked, but the detective simply nods his head, closes his black book and slips it back into his pocket, eyes flashing something dangerous.

They part ways at the hospital and Steve is ushered away by the same no-nonsense paramedic.

Neither of them have the energy to argue with her so Clint wanders his way into the waiting room. His mind is a wreck right now and he just wants someone to tell him what to do next.

That someone arrives twenty minutes later.

It's Phil.

. . .

The hospital smells like the diner water pitchers when they come out of the dishwasher. Stale. Chemical-like. It sours his cheeks. Even the muted green walls with their painted animals and gardens of flowers make him feel sick—this is a children's hospital. And like it or not, Natasha is still just a child.

This isn't supposed to happen to children. He's surrounded by kids with fevers and runny noses but somewhere down one of these maze-like halls his girlfriend is bleeding out on a gurney.

He takes a deep, steadying breath to keep from kicking over the Lego house some poor, sick kid has left in middle of the waiting room floor.

Clint's never liked hospitals. Every visit he's ever had in one of these places has ended with some doctor prodding and poking at bruises formed by hands bigger than his and awkward conversations with social workers.

The memories ratchet up his nerves to an unbearable level as he paces. There's a process to go through now, which Clint is very much aware of because it's the system and anyone who's ever been in the system knows about processes.

With Ivan in cuffs in the back of some cruiser, Natasha's next of kin boils down to a big fat nobody which automatically defaults her into the school's custody. So when Clint sees Fury bustle through the doors, good eye scanning the joint like he might come under attack, he's not at all surprised. In fact, he's almost relieved because it means there will be news.

And if someone doesn't tell him what's going on soon he might just strangle the security guard that keeps glancing up at him over his computer screen.

Fury meets Phil, speaking in low, hushed whispers like the spies Clint knows they really are (Phil's still in one of his suits), off to the side of the waiting room. Then Fury disappears behind some doors with a nurse and Phil drops down in the chair next to where Clint is standing.

"Sit," he instructs, noting the chair next to him.

Clint does but it's a struggle because his whole body just wants to climb out of it again like some gangly creature. He's fighting with some subconscious part of himself and it's making him a little nuts.

"How's Steve?" Clint asks instead.

"He'll be fine," Phil says. "The nurses are patching him up now. A few cuts. Bruised some knuckles. That's all. Tony's coming to pick him up."

"Good," Clint says. "That's good." His mind is moving a mile a minute, but not so fast that he misses the nuances of conversation and he knows by the way Phil shifts that the tone is shifting.

"I never want to get a phone call like this again," he says, wringing his hands over his knees. "When that officer called and told me you and Steve were involved and on your way to the hospital, you know what I thought?"

"That we were going to be arrested?"

"That you were hurt, or dead, or I don't even know." He takes a breath and Clint can't remember seeing Phil like this. Ever. "I never want another phone call like that. Do you understand? You boys mean everything to me. I can't lose you."

He hugs Clint before he's ready for it, dragging him half over the chair. It's awkward and the arm of the chair presses into his hip, but Clint melts at the touch because he's been driving on autopilot for over an hour now and the emotions are just too much.

"I'm sorry," he whispers into Phil's jacket. "I'm sorry. Sorry . . . sorry."

"It's okay," Phil tells him, soothing and calm. "She's going to be okay."

Clint nods because any other reality is not one he can bear.

When Fury comes out fifteen minutes later it's with news. Natasha's in surgery. She lost a lot of blood. There's extensive damage. All things Clint knew subconsciously.

Fury falls into the chair beside Phil, massaging his temples with one hand, and the three of them sit like that in silence until the surgeon appears an hour later.

Natasha is moved to recovery and when the nurses are satisfied that her stats are stable they take pity and Clint is allowed to visit.

She's unconscious, of course, still heavily sedated after the trauma, but the monitor above her head blinks a steady green line.

Clint parks himself beside her bed in one of those terrible, flat backed chairs, until the nurses kick him out for the night. At that time Phil drags him from the hospital, managing to get a plate of dinner into him before he crashes. He never makes it up to his room, but when he wakes, Steve's sitting on the end of the couch by his feet.

His hands are bandaged in an intricate figure eight, tufts of white gauze peeking out between his fingers.

"Anything broken?" Clint asks as he sits up, voice still garbled from sleep and probably not enough water.

"Nah."

"Hurt?"

"Like a sonofabitch, but they gave me good pain meds. Swelling should go down in a few days. It was a pain to do up my pants though. I almost had to ask Tony for help." Steve offers up a small smile. "So, Fury called while you were asleep. Natasha woke up this morning. She asked for you. Phil said he'll—"

The first thing Clint does is get his bearings and process. The second thing he does is scramble from under the blankets and crush Steve in a hug.

"I don't know where the hell you learned to fight like that, man," Clint says.

Steve laughs a little. "Me neither. I wasn't really thinking. I just . . ." he gestures with his hands as Clint pulls away. ". . . smashed. Next thing I knew he was unconscious and you were covered in blood. I didn't know if it was yours or Natasha's and it freaked me out."

"Yeah, well, it's been a heck of a few days."

Steve nods. "Are you hungry? Sam literally hasn't stopped cooking since yesterday."

At the mention of food Clint's stomach awakens. He looks to the door though.

"Visiting hours don't start until eleven."

Clint sighs. "Yeah, I could probably eat then."

. . .

The diner is closed for the day due to extenuating circumstances. Phil puts a sign on the door. The town is small; people will figure it out soon enough if they haven't already.

Clint manages to eat, enduring a never ending round of questions that require detailed explanations of what happened with Ivan. Sam's cooked a feast in his worry and everyone's there to show their support. Thor and Bruce help ferry food onto the counter as Peggy instructs them with the precision of a military sergeant.

Never one for being the center of attention, Clint diverts most of it to Steve and his insane heroics, who despite his modesty, handles it better. Still, Clint can't say that seeing all the familiar faces isn't comforting. Even Maria Hill shows up before school, sneaking in the kitchen door (because of course Sam showered her that). She squeezes his shoulder gently, telling him everything will work out, and if Clint isn't mistaken, presses a kiss to Sam's cheek before she leaves.

At exactly eleven-oh-one Clint is standing inside Natasha's room. As if sensing his presence, she shifts, coming out of another foggy bout of sleep. He steps closer. Close enough she can reach for him.

"Hey," she gurgles, eyes barely lifting, though she definitely sees him because she smiles.

"Hi, pretty girl," he says, brushing his fingers along her cheek.

She chuckles, though it sounds like a frog in the back of her throat. "Doubt that."

Clint shakes his head. "You're always beautiful, Tash," he whispers, leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead. It seems to be the only part of her he can reach with setting off some sort of alarm.

"Sure, sure," she mutters around a yawn.

"How do you feel?"

"Tired."

"Are you in pain?"

"No." She shakes her other hand, showing him a press-pump. "I get to drug myself up."

He huffs a laugh through his nose. "As long as you're not hurting." His hand trails over hers, resting next to her hip. He can see the bulge of bandage beneath her gown, the one covering the wound. "Did the doctor explain what happened?" he wonders.

"Yeah," she says, and even through the croak Clint can hear the emotion. "He said the scarring was substantial. Inside." She pats her hip, eyes batting.

Clint swallows.

"They don't think I'll be able to have children." She stares at the ceiling instead of at him. "I wouldn't have been a good mother anyway. Look at the way my family turned out."

"Tasha," he whispers, but there's nothing else he can say. So he holds her hand and shifts close enough that she can lean her head against his stomach as her shoulders shake.

. . .

She's been in the hospital for eight days and Clint shows up every day religiously. Except for when Tony or Steve show up to drag him to class, he's there, by her side. Phil shows up, too. And sometimes they talk while Natasha rests. Sometimes they don't.

There have been more people in and out of Natasha's room in the past few days than Clint can keep track of. Fury had to sign off on some things for the last time since she's become a state problem now, which means these mysterious strangers are most likely social workers and therapists and lawyers.

It makes Clint uneasy. Natasha just takes it all in stride, brave-faced, nodding silently.

On the ninth day Phil shows up and Clint's sitting by her bedside again. Her eyes are closed and her breathing is deep.

Phil pulls another chair next to the bed.

"They're going to take her away now."

Phil lays a hand on his knee. "She'll be safe, though. You did that, Clint. You saved her."

He furrows his brow as he watches the monitor. Her heart. Spike and fall. Spike and fall. Then why did it feel like he was the one dying?

"I can't lose her, Phil." He feels the first bead drop off the edge of his chin. It takes him by surprise— the tears. He wasn't going to cry, not here. But the realization is just so overwhelming. That the last memory he has of her is a drug-induced stupor. Pale. Paler than usual against the hospital white.

He's not ready to say goodbye. Not yet.

His hand curls around the edge of the chair when a woman with cropped black hair enters the room. She's all business with her pant suit and pumps. Clint knows the look. Child Protective Services. A file is tucked under her arm. Thin.

"Are you family?" she asks politely, her smile short, sweet. It makes rage bubble inside Clint.

"No," he says, feeling the weight of the words thump against his gut.

"Then I'll have to ask you to leave now. There are some things I have to discuss with Miss Romanoff."

. . .

Clint leaves long enough to go home and change, to wash the slime of hospital out of his hair. Phil drives and when Clint comes back after dinner, dressed in the purple shirt and sweats he met Natasha in all those months ago, he takes the van.

Her room is blissfully empty of all medical personal when he arrives and she opens her eyes as soon as she hears his footsteps.

"Peggy sent you some things," he says, holding up a duffle bag. "Girly stuff. For when you shower."

Natasha manages a smile. "Good. I never want another bed bath as long as I live."

He chuckles, snatching a chair and dragging it over by the head of the bed, but Natasha makes a grumbling noise in the pit of her throat, prompting him to stop and look up.

"Come up here," she asks him. "With me."

"Tash, I don't want to hurt you."

"Please."

He sighs, but concedes to her pout, unable to stand looking at her like that, asking so little of him. Together they extricate as many of the wires and tubes as they can, to avoid having Clint lie on her IV line. He crawls in beside her, moving gingerly, half expecting the monitors to go berserk and the nursing staff to rush in and tackle him like a bunch of SWAT. He knows they could totally do that too. There are still so many cords and tubes, but somehow Natasha gets herself wrapped around him and Clint imagines she looks sort of like an octopus; he doesn't complain.

"Do you know where they're sending you?" he asks, tracing the length of her arm with his fingertip.

"Not yet," she mumbles.

"Okay," he says. He's panicking and he knows she can feel the race of his heart, her head is pressed that tight to his chest. "Tasha, I don't know what to do."

"There's nothing," she says. "There are no girl group homes with room in the city. Wherever I end up," she swallows a loaded breath, "it won't be near here."

He hugs her closer and his eyes well again. "It's not fair," he murmurs into her hair. Inhaling. Exhaling. Memorizing everything about the moment. The way she smells. The weight of her in his arms. He knows the real thing is slipping away. That soon it'll be gone and all he'll have is the memories. "There has to be something," he tries, struggling for the words.

"You've done everything for me, Clint. Even when I pushed you away." Her lips tremble as she speaks and he has to bite his lip to keep from completely breaking down. "You saved me, and even if I only got to keep you for a short time, then it was enough."

"Don't say that. This isn't goodbye."

"You don't have to keep saving me, Clint. You've already done that."

"Tash," he says with half a laugh, because it sounds absurd, these words that she's saying, and he just needs to confirm that it's nonsense. "You're not breaking up with me, are you?" I'm no good for you. Lies. She was everything that was good for him. This isn't goodbye. It's not. It's—

"No, silly," she whispers, hand over his heart, the sound of the truth a lump in her throat. "I'm setting you free."


End file.
